


glorious dawn

by OfTheIronwilled



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophetic Visions, Slow Burn, Totems, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTheIronwilled/pseuds/OfTheIronwilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris feels a Wendigo rip his head off. And then he wakes up in the snow, a black totem in his hand.</p>
<p>If only that was the most difficult part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Until

Chris dies. And then he wakes up.

 

Somewhere far away he feels his hand go slack, and watches the wooden totem fall into the snow. It rolls over on its side, the hollow, shadowed maw buried into the cold.

 

Chris can’t breathe. He’s still… God. God, what the-- what the hell was that How did--

 

\--He starts, jerks his body to the side, and it feels like his body’s ripped in half; he can feel nails, hot, bloody nails that explode with cold, too much cold-- they slash into his shoulder and rip into his neck, into the hollow of his throat-- then-- then he’s there, in that shed, saw blades in his ears, in his everything while they spin with his pulse and god god Josh is dying there’s blood and he’s screaming, jesus, Josh, Josh was his friend and--and he didn’t make it in time he--

 

\--that man, his fucking throat ripped open blood fucking everywhere gurgling into the snow-- there’s monster’s behind them he fell he fell down and they’re right there, pounding in his head, the whole world slowing down, he can feel its fucking breath on his back the shotgun’s not good enough, please, please-- please, god, Ashley please, _PLEASE OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, ASH_ \--

 

It’s too much. He just lived through it, but it’s still there, still playing over and over in his head, it--

 

He throws up. Chris thinks he throws up at least; his mouth tastes tangy and sour, and his stomach cramps. He’s leaning over a disgusting, scummy pink splotch of snow and his breath rasps against the rough bark of a tree; one of the branches cuts roughly into his cheek, but all he can feel, hear, smell, taste, _be_ \--

 

Chris blinks. His pulse flares in his ears, whirring in a hurricane of noise, and his hands are clammy, but the more his boiling stomach releases, the more his whole body does. The acid burns while it comes up, the heat of it tearing up his throat and out of his body. It’s almost cleansing, but then again “almost” doesn't mean much.

 

But it’s enough for now.

 

He blinks again, and Chris can actually breathe, which -- he gags, then gasps in a strangled breath, and then nods, in that order -- is good. That’s good. Just. Just breathe, come on, Chris. He’s probably having a panic attack, or an anxiety attack or something, he thinks. Which is fine. He knows how to get through those; he’s helped Josh through them before and it worked out, so. So he’ll be fine.

 

He nearly collapses into the snow but doesn’t. He just leans there, in the hug of this solid pine tree which anchors him to the world while he recovers; rasping, gurgling breaths through his vomit, through the vice in his lungs, in his everything. Breathe in for like… five second? That’s good. Five seconds. Hold for a couple. Breathe back out slowly.

 

Eventually he can see clearly again without everything going blurry or toppling over.

 

When he clenches his eyes shut it only takes him a couple tries to stand back up again. A few more minutes and he can actually think again.

 

Fuck. Jesus. What the hell _was_ that? He means, he knows what that was; the Wendigos got a hold of him, and-- and that was it, he guesses. The fingers are still burned into his memory, the daggers of icy hot flesh which pierce his shattered throat and rip him open. At least… at least that’s what he thinks happened. So where is… how is he not…?

 

Slowly, achingly slowly, Chris lifts a few fingers to his neck and throat. He probes around with jabs of his hands, looking for cuts or bruises or anything. But- but there’s… nothing. He furiously but delicately scrubs at his cold sin, but all he feels are dull pangs, unreal phantoms of skinny monsters with knives for hands, with bloodied razors smashed into their sickly faces as teeth. Not real pain, but he almost feels like he should feel something. There’s like, no scratches or anything, so--

 

Well. He peers around , and around him everything is familiar. A blanket of snow, broken by the patterns of shoes, overhung by tall pine trees which tower over everything. This is Blackwood Mountain, still. It’s gotta be. Chris knows; the smell and everything, the way that tree has a knot on it right there. There's no doubt about it. But this is different. For one there's no freaky abominations from his worst nightmares crawling all through the trees, and there's no screams or anything. It’s quiet and almost peaceful. Overhead, through gaps in the pine needles, the sun bleeds over the world in a cascade of honeyglow.

 

What, did they make it until dawn? Then where are-- jesus, where’s- where’s Sam, and Mike and Ash? Is Josh still around?-- maybe he came back and-and saved him somehow or--

 

No. He remembers. He remembers everything, with so much clarity; it’s all there, all of it, he can practically feel The Psycho-- no, Josh -- punch him, and he can see all that-- all that twisted shit. He. Jesus, Jess died. Josh died. He saw the Stranger bleed out right in fucking front of him. He-- Chris fucking died, or-or he should have, or--

 

What the fuck. Fuck. He must be-- Chris must be dreaming, or crazy, or maybe even fucking dead. Why else would he just be here, feeling like-- feeling like--

 

Chris stumbles forward in the snow, his body exhaustedly collapsing into the bitter ice. He gasps against the moisture, the chill, and groans as he shifts his head and feels something scuff into the dry skin of his cheek. He lies there, his body limp in the bitter frost of the mountain, just until he can breathe again without feeling like he’s going to pass out. Peeling his face away from the snow,  he breathes deep, feels the crystals of ice curl into his mouth and nose. They burn into his eyes and fog his glasses They leave him…

 

God, they leave him tired. Chris is so fucking tired. But. But he can’t just--

 

His lungs burn. His hands are shaky. But he puts his glasses back on. He has to. His eyes hurt. But he looks down. He has to.

 

The totem below his face is overturned, so it’s gaping maw doesn’t peer into him. But it’s tilted just enough that he can see the way it's carved and painted, those withered colors that scream “Native American” to him after all that research Josh did.

 

It’s really a totem. And somewhere far away, Chris remembers Josh telling him something about how they were supposed to… he doesn’t really know, give you visions or some shit.

 

Visions of the future. Of what could happen to you, or to a friend.

 

They’re supposed to show you how you’re going to die.

 

Chris coughs into his chest, hot and tight. No. There's no way. He doesn’t believe in that shit; it’s not real, it’s just people trying to… to get a grasp on why bad stuff happens. There’s no way-- someone-- someone has to be fucking with him. Hell, for all he knows this right here is just some fucked up prank, a joke where they get him to think that-- that he fucking died-- somehow. They drugged him up or something, they had to have.

 

(Something inside him whispers that it probably wouldn’t be too much of a fucking stretch. Josh already made him think someone was dead tonight.)

 

… But. But if it’s true… if-- if that fucking totem bullshit is real and that Wendigo hasn’t gotten to him yet… or--or holy shit, what if he dreamt the whole night?! He could get Josh to stop, he could get them all off the mountain, he--

 

No. Stop. Calm down. No matter what the fuck is happening, Chris is awake. Maybe something is fucking with him, maybe the Wendigo has got him knocked out somewhere in reality but-- but Chris is _here_ , and he’s lucid, and god damn it, he’s gotta… gotta pull it together. If he’s still on the mountain and the Wendigos are around then he has to find the others. Because, God, what’s happening to the others? To Ashley and Emily and Mike? Chris needs to calm the fuck down and breathe. They might need him.

 

And if that was just a vision he might have a chance to… he might have more time...

 

He just has to get to the lodge.

 

Chris breathes deep, stands up with the totem cutting a hard cold shape into his palm, and starts sprinting.

 

His everything hurts. But he runs. He has to.

 

* * *

 

 

Chris keeps running and doesn’t stop. He knows that trail like the back of his hand at this point, and there aren’t any signs of Wendigos -- there’s a crunch of snow or a snap of a twig that makes him stop and-- and shake feel like he’s going to pass out. But they're just squirrels and birds and stuff. It’s almost disconcerting with how calm it is, but… but no. He just shakes his head and keeps moving. He has to reach the rest of them.

 

He keeps a good pace, even when he can feel the rasp of asthma in his lungs. Then he just just goes faster.

 

After a few minutes of nothing but the endless glaze of snow, of grass dotted with giant pines that smell way too much like home to be on some murderous mountain, Chris sees the lodge roll over a sharp incline. It’s imposing and warm from this angle, with the sun bouncing off the windows in ripe reds and grapefruit pinks, and most importantly: it’s normal. From the looks of it all the doors are closed, no windows broken. No screams of terror, or gargling chirps of a pale, fleshy nightmare.

 

Okay. Alright, Chris knows how these Wendigo things work; the bastards don’t like the sun, so he shouldn’t have a problem. Just has to listen for any chirping or gurgling, in case he needs to get out of there. But for now… God, he’s exhausted.

 

He laughs at himself for a second; he lets himself laugh because if not he might just fucking-- he doesn't know.

 

“Really should have tried harder in gym,” he whispers.

 

His legs shake, but he inches forward and slowly but surely walks to the front door, letting himself finally breathe as he steps in footprints which have gone “stale” now, old ones that have been covered in powder (he notices because, hey, there’s no Wendigo tracks or anything. That's good right?)

 

He feels like he’s dying when his hand is on the doorknob. But he pushes the door open. Gotta make sure everybody’s safe, gotta find out what’s going on. All that matters right now.The door swings open and…

 

 _God_.

 

Chris means… Jesus, what the fuck; what the actual fuck, that’s not-- _not_ ….

 

He feels himself laugh. It’s bitter in his throat. He’s gasping for breath again, and his lungs ache and… and fuck his eyes are burning this is-- he can’t cry, not right now, he needs to--

 

“Hey. That was shorter than expected,” he hears, but… but he can’t be hearing that, he must be crazy. “Hey,” the voice says again. “Christopher, hey. Are you alright? Fuck, what-- what’s wrong? Chris? What happened?”

 

Chris wants to say something back. He can’t.

 

It’s fucking _Beth_.

  



	2. second chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know how he keeps it all together. I'd... I mean, I'd be a wreck."

He had held back Josh when the others told him that the girls were missing; he had been so fucking pissed and scared -- and who wouldn’t be? Hell, if Chris hadn’t been busy holding Josh back from throttling Mike, he might have punched him too. Hannah and Beth and him were… close. Josh was his best friend, right? And so Chris would always go over to the Washingtons’: every week after school, for parties and celebrations and stuff. Chris was there when Han and Beth blew out their birthday candles and smashed Josh’s face into the cake; he was there when that Ricky shithead dumped Beth and left her feeling awful; he was there when both of them started middle school… when pretty much anything happened, actually.

 

He means, it wasn’t like their bond with Josh, but. You know. They were almost like little sisters to him.

 

And that made it so much harder when all of a sudden they were just  _ gone _ . When he was hanging up missing posters and Josh was… well…

 

But. But God. There she is.

 

He knows it’s Beth-- it’s her dark hair and her posture and her eyes. But-- but fuck.  _ Fuck _ , it can’t be. They were dead, and Josh even had them-- had them look at a damn Ouija board to “communicate with her spirit” or something. Or maybe that was Hannah? He can’t really remember, and now that Chris thinks about it, all that was probably part of Josh’s stupid prank.

 

Chris blinks, and realizes Beth is cupping his cheek. Chris can feel her breath and her hand on his face. Distantly, he thinks she look worried.

 

“Fuck. Chris, come on, you need to calm down.”

 

She’s… she’s alive...

 

“Josh! Josh, I need you in here. A-And Sam and Ashley! I think think Chris is having a panic attack or something.”

 

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t feel himself do it but he hears it. Because. Shit. All this time -- a whole fucking year -- thinking that they’re dead in a fucking pit somewhere… a whole year, and then all that shit that happened last night or-- or never or-- whatever it was, and… and now they’re alive? Seriously? You expect him to just  _ believe _ they’re suddenly okay?! Chris sucks in a ragged breath; he can feel his chest go hot , and his fingers curl into a shaking fist. Somebody is fucking with him. Somebody has  _ got _ to be--

 

\--Chris stops.

 

Beth softly whispers to him as she wipes gently at his face; he can feel every touch, light and soft, but there; he can hear every damn word she’s saying, and he holds on to them in a desperate grip; he can see her right there, and he drinks in the sight like he’ll never get another chance. He… he might not.

 

She’s alive. And-- And even if this is somehow a joke or some shit, he…. She’s  _ here _ . She’s alive right now. And if this isn’t a prank, then that means--

 

A thought comes to Chris, but he smashes it down as a thrill races through him, as a shock flies down his spine, as all of his thoughts clear and he looks down at the totem he dropped on the floor without noticing. Beth is alive, and those totems are supposed to give you visions of the  _ future _ .

 

Chris doesn’t feel himself rip his phone out of his pocket, but he blinks and he’s looking down at it. The time and date flash up at him from the center of the screen, through a hairline crack that splinters across the numbers.

 

It’s 2014. The day Hannah and Beth went missing.

 

Chris coughs. He might be crying. He doesn’t know.

 

Chris lifts a shaking hand to Beth’s fingers, and firmly moves them from his face; he crushes her small hands in his and doesn’t let go. She’s… She’s  _ alive _ . He went  _ back _ . Chris blinks as he processes that, and… he wants to hug her forever  and probably cry more and tell her how much of  tool he was for getting drunk at her fifteenth birthday party. He wants to laugh because, hell, he doesn’t know how else to deal with this situation emotionally.

 

He can save them. He can keep that night from happening, and keep Jess alive, and stop Hannah and Beth from disappearing. He can stop the others from doing that prank--

 

“Chris? Chris, bud, come on. You’ve got to talk to me.”

 

Chris snaps his gaze back up from the floor, and just now realizes the sudden lack of Beth’s touch; she’s backed off, and now…

 

Now there’s Josh.

 

Chris chokes. Josh is standing there, tense and rigid, with his face screwed up in worry, but looking calmer than any recent memory Chris has got of him. His dark eyes aren’t so clouded, that too-eager tilted grin doesn’t smear on his face, the mask and overalls of the Psycho persona are gone. He’s --( _ sawblades ripping into him; taking the mask off; laughing as he’s tied up; the empty shed; his blood on the floor; Chris is too late God he’s gone _ )-- fine. He’s alive.

 

God. He can save Josh. All of them. He really can, he just--

 

Chris looks around and sees everyone is here. Hannah is even there. Hannah! Jessica, Sam, Ash, Emily and…

 

Oh.

 

Mike.

 

_ Mike _ .

 

Hannah. They --  _ Mike _ \-- fucking pranked-- are going to prank Hannah. Like, in the most shitty way ever-- they’re gonna- gonna fucking make her think she’s going to get the guy of her dreams and then they’re going to rip it away in front of her and fucking make fun of her-- all while they’re fucking laughing and recording her taking her goddamn shirt off like it’s not so-- so damn monumentally fucked up, like a bunch of dick bags-- oh, and Mike is gonna sweet talk her the whole time and not even go after her when she-- when  _ both _ of them run into the woods to fucking  _ die _ \--

 

It feels like his chest is boiling. He looks at Mike, and everything else is gone. All his hope is squashed, bleeding away and drowning in so much fucking  _ hate _ , until its practically suffocating him (he can feel its claws in his throat). Mike is just standing there staring at him, as Chris’ vision swims; he sees Mike shrug when he tells him that Hannah is missing, he sees Mike hop right on Jessica after Emily like nothing happened with Hannah at all. 

 

He sees Mike, twisting Josh’s cracking fingers, and pointing a barrel filled with hot lead at Josh’s face.

 

Chris is punching him and screaming before he can realize it.

 

“Why?!” he screams. His throat feels like it’s ripping open. “You can’t-- you can't do that to a girl, man! You just-- you--”

 

He can’t see right; Chris’ vision is hazy and his eyes are practically throbbing. He can’t really hear or feel, either-- he registers a faint noise go off in the room, and he swear he can almost feel pressure at his wrists, and then on his forearms and--

 

Josh wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders and yanks him away from where Mike is splayed out on the floor. Mike is staring up at him, his eyes wide while he rubs his jaw; Chris’ knuckles start to sting, and he almost wants to laugh.

 

Almost. But then Josh is saying something to him, and Emily is storming up to bitch in his face, and everything comes back in a rush.

 

“What the actual  _ fuck _ , Christopher?!” Emily screams. “What the fuck is wrong with you; have you gone fucking  _ insane _ ?”

 

Chris takes a second to suck in another ragged breath; the anger curls in and out of his mouth, and apparently Josh can sense that because he starts to rub at Chris’ shoulders while he shakes. Sam takes his silence as a cue to step forward. She worms her way in between him and Emily and puts a hand to Emily’s chest. She flicks her eyes between them once, then twice, and then she stares up at Chris with a wavering lip.

 

“Guys! Guys, just calm down. Chris, look, that prank was stupid and we shouldn’t have even thought of it--”

 

“Oh yeah, Sam,” Emily barks. “Now you want to act like you weren’t in on this shit. It’s just a fucking prank Chris; what is the fucking deal with you?”

 

Chris scoffs at her and rolls his eyes -- when he does he catches a glimpse of Hannah; she’s got her hands on her chest, like he just kicked her puppy. Like he didn’t just, you know, punch the stupid asshole that wanted to humiliate her. And-- Chris clenches his fingers, and in response Josh tightens his grip -- that’s just it. She doesn’t even know what they’re going to do to her. And- and he bets none of them even  _ care _ ! Emily doesn’t. They don’t care that they’re about to  _ ruin _ someone, and send them off to die on this damned mountain out in the cold somewhere.

 

“What’s my  _ deal _ ? Em, my fucking deal is that-- that you’re just going to fuck with Hannah and then you’re just going to act like nothing fucking happened! Do you-- you don’t fucking know what’s going on on this mountain, Em!”

 

Emily shrugs her shoulders at him and has the fucking nerve to laugh in his face. “Oh, fucking  _ spare _ me, Chris. What, are you going to tell me there’s a ghost or some shit that chased you here? Is that why you’re so damn pissy?! You can’t just fucking punch somebody for no reason--”

 

“No reason?! No-- no  _ reason _ , are you kidding me? Mike, that fucker, he--” Chris wants to scream, but it chokes up in his throat. He feels exhaustion push on him; the cold clings to his arms and legs, and he still feels the hot needle-mouthed screams of Wendigos huffing over his neck. He still hears the bleeding echoes of screeches, and of his friends pitifully sobbing and screaming. He still sees-- he sees that damn  _ gun _ \-- “That  _ fucker _ -” he tries again, but it sounds more like a hollow whimper than a scream. “--p-points a fucking gun at Josh and leaves him to die and you want to tell me that… that…”

 

He stops. He has to. He can’t breathe... Chris is just so tired...

 

Sam lets go of Emily and gently clasps Chris’ hand instead. Chris looks around, and he realizes all of them are-- are  _ looking _ at him.  _ Into _ him. Great. They think he’s crazy; a damn raving lunatic. Or they at least think he was having hallucinations or something. For all he knows he is... b-but they  _ can’t _ . They’ve  _ got _ to know that there are…

 

Fuck. 

 

No no no no _ fuck _ .

 

There are Wendigos on the mountain.

 

That hits him again, and it all screeches to a quick, cool stop. His anger is gone in a second, replaced by… by the realization that, God, they’re all still in major trouble right now. What’s he-- he’s gotta-- He has to get pulled together; he needs to figure out how to get them out of here and--and that just hits so  _ hard _ . It’s like a weight, a blanket that smashes into him. He staggers into Josh’s grip, and it isn’t until Josh stops clasping his shoulders in a vice grip that he can see straight again. A few more seconds and he can breathe. A couple more and… and he can start to think about how the fuck he’s going to manage this.

 

“Woah, Chris, slow down. What are you talking about?” Hannah asks. She's stepped forward now, and she looks up at him through her glasses as Josh lets go of Chris completely. She stares at him, deep into him, and-- and God. Jesus. He’s seen that look before. She’s looked at Josh like that before. “What… were you guys trying to do something to me? Josh, what is he talking about?”

 

Chris turns around just in time to see Josh’s expression. And everything inside of him plummets. He feels his fingers go numb. Josh is looking at him like-- like he’s fucking concerned, and when Josh is concerned he’s stubborn. Chris-- god he fucked up, how is he supposed to get them to listen to him?

 

“I don’t know,” Josh shrugs. “Chris?”

 

And then everyone is  _ really _ looking at him. Mike is picking himself off the floor, glaring confused daggers at him and probably wishing he could wring his neck; Beth is angrily gazing between him and Mike and Em; Hannah stares at him with those watery eyes; Jessica, Ashley and Sam all look lost, tense and rigid -- Ashley looks like she’s about to pass out or go sprinting out of the room, she’s gone so fucking pale ( _ Guilt _ , something whispers inside him. She’s guilty; she was such a happy and  _ willing _ participant during the whole prank thing, after all. And plus the--)

 

( _ \--THE DOOR PLEASE ASHLEY OPEN THE DOOR PLEASE--) _

 

He looks away from her. From all of them. It’s almost too much. But then again, “almost” doesn't mean too much anymore. It can’t. They all need him. So Chris just has to do this. He shakes his head. He has to figure this out, right now. He can’t think about anything else.

 

They  _ need _ him.

 

“Look, it’s-- that’s not important right now, all right? You just have to listen to me…”

 

All the eyes on him turn hesitant, save for Josh; he just raises his eyebrows. Josh hums at him, and then gives him a small nod, and a pat on his arm. Chris could cry, or hug him or… or  _ something _ .

 

“Yeah? Whatever you need, Cochise.”

 

_ Cochise _ .

 

That’s-- that’s right! The-- the Native American stuff, Josh knows all about that, and so does Hannah and Beth; he’s not sure about the others, but Ashley and Samantha are avid believers in the supernatural. Always have been. If he just shows them the totem, they might--!

 

Chris ducks around Josh, quickly finding the totem on the floor from where he’d dropped it earlier. It’s maw lies face-up, open to the world and pulsing a continuous ethereal whisper of promise: the one that drew him to look at it the first place, and the one which keeps him from looking at it again now. He twists the face towards his chest before he turns around with it. He can’t let the others see all that shit that he did. They can’t see that. He doesn’t know how they would handle it. He doesn’t know how he’s handling it at all-- and he guesses that’s because he’s really not.

 

“This place is-- there’s something wrong with Blackwood,” he mutters, while he turns around to look at Josh, Beth and Hannah. He holds the totem out and turns it just enough so they can see the markings, the rough textured paint on carved wood. “There are--”

 

He’s stopped by a gasp. Hannah shakes her head at him and folds her hands over her heart. Beth goes rigid. Josh narrows his eyes at him.

 

“Oh,” Hannah whispers. “Oh, God,  _ Chris _ …. Josh, it’s black.”

 

Chris chooses to ignore the way Josh flinches. No. He doesn’t have time to talk about this right now; not when the things that killed him could be right outside. So he curls the totem further against him and keeps talking.

 

“Hannah, listen, things are… not good right now. There are  _ Wendigos _ on the mountain--” Hannah opens her mouth again but Chris doesn’t give her a chance. “I’ve seen them and… I’ve seen what these fuckers can do, and I don’t want to see it again. Okay? So-- So I need you all of you to listen to me.”

 

The silence afterwards is deafening. Beth, Josh and Hannah are stiff and silent; Sam and Ashley probably don’t know what he’s talking about, but Josh has tossed the word “Wendigo” around before, so they must at least know it’s some sort of spiritual creature; the others don’t say anything. Probably still think he’s crazy. He doesn’t blame them. He would think so too.

 

After a few seconds Josh licks his lips and nods in Chris’ direction.

 

And… Chris doesn’t really know what to do from here. How-- How is he supposed to get them all out of this? He remembers seeing the sun on the way up here, and if he was seeing it right then they only have a little while before the sun goes down. And-- And what if that fucker decides it doesn’t want to wait until dusk to go hunting? It c-could hear them or something, and if it -- maybe they, there might be… be fucking  _ more _ of them -- did then they’d be fucked.

 

The Wendigos didn’t make it into the lodge last time as far as he knows, not with the doors and windows locked. But… but even if they stay inside, then how are… Jesus, how are they supposed to defend themselves if… _ fuck _ … 

 

Chris nearly drops the totem but doesn’t. The wood scratches roughly against the skin of his hand, and old paint flakes off against his fingers: it’s black, of death, of him running to the shed and not making it in time and him making noise on accident and the Wendigo ripping off that old guy’s fucking head and--

 

That’s it. 

 

He knows what to do.

 

It all hurts. His head, his stomach, his everything. All Chris wants to do is… is hug everyone and maybe crawl into a shaking ball for the rest of his life. But he can’t. So…

 

He shakes his head.

 

He doesn’t dare look at Josh, or Beth or Hannah. If he does, then he knows it’s going to be hell to turn away again. He just… He just has no other choice. He’s got to help them.

 

Instead, he turns to Sam, and grabs at her shoulder. She looks worried, and if he’s being honest with himself that just makes it harder for him to breathe; feels like his chest is in a damn vice. Still, he chokes over the knot in his throat, holding onto Sam and letting her ground him until he can talk again.

 

“Lock all the doors and windows leading outside, and… I don’t know, push some heavy shit in front of them. Just-- Just don’t go outside until dawn. If the Wendigos get inside somehow, then stay still. Okay? I mean it, you-- you can’t move a fucking muscle. Stay still, and then when the fuckers go upstairs or leave then you-- you run for the cable car as fast as you can.”

 

Sam coughs out a strangled noise, her face scrunching up while she nods. She folds a warm hand over Chris’ fingers, and Chris notices that she hasn’t gotten her nails done yet (It’s really not 2015, and it’s fucking with him so much he doesn’t know how to feel about it right now). “Oh… Okay, Chris, we will, but--”

 

Chris rips away from her and starts to walk for the door. Don’t think about it, just go.

 

“Wh-- Chris?” Sam calls behind him, but he doesn’t stop.

 

“Chris? Chris wait, you can’t go when there are monsters out there, are you crazy? What are you doing?” That’s Hannah. Or maybe Ashley. His legs are shaking, and his ears are whirring in a hurricane of buzzing.

 

“I know someone who might be able to help,” he strains, shrugging.

 

Emily scoffs and storms up behind him, digging her fingernails into the skin of his forearm (-- _ monstrous pale flesh, long dagger nails ripping into him like he’s a fucking paper bag _ \--), but he doesn’t budge when she tries to jerk him to the side. He staggers slightly against the ghost pains, the phantoms in his throat, but he just forces himself to scoff and roll his eyes and act like he’s annoyed because he’s pretty sure he is -- he just can’t feel it.

 

“Um, ex- _ fucking _ -scuse me, Christopher, but we were  _ not _ done! You come in here a-and punch Michael and spew fucking nonsense and then you’re just going to--” She huffs at him when he pries her spindly fingers of of his skin and tosses her arm to the side like it’s nothing; just keep on walking. “Are you serious? You dick, do you know how… how fucking _ insulting _ that is? Get back here and say something, you tool!”

 

Chris takes a step. Another one. After the third he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out.

 

Until he feels a warm hand on his.

 

Fuck. Fuck,  _ no _ , Chris knew he would do this, stop, he’s just gotta go...

 

“Well, Cochise, you gotta have a partner to head out there with, right? I’ll go with you.”

 

Chris stumbles, and when Josh steadies him, his hand warm and  _ there _ , he wants to puke. To puke, o-or cry, or… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, because-- because doesn’t Josh get it? He means, fuck, he already lost his best friend once because he fucked up; how the hell is he supposed to deal with it if it happens again?! All he can imagine, all he can see and hear, is Josh screaming as he’s dragged away by a twisted amalgamation of slimy flesh and  _ teeth _ . He… Chris can’t handle it, not fucking again, he--

 

“ _ Josh _ ,” he bites. 

 

His world spins when Josh lightly rubs his thumb against the back of his knuckles. “Stop it. Don’t do that shit, Chris.”

 

\-- _ Fuck _ , first he-- he pulls that fucked up prank shit because Chris-- because  _ of _ Chris, because he wasn’t there, and then-- and then he gets dragged away by a Wendigo somewhere-- 

 

“ _ No _ ! No,  _ you _ don’t fucking do this shit, Josh! I…” Chris chokes. “Fuck, I… those… Those things already killed you tonight, Josh. And if they do it again, then...” he shrugs. Breathes in for five seconds, holds in for two, breathes out. “I don’t know.”

 

Chris still doesn’t look at him: not when he hears Josh sigh, and especially not when Josh drops his hand.

 

“Alright, bro,” Josh mutters after a few eternities of silence. “I’ll open the door for you when you get back.”

 

If feels like there’s something unsaid there, but Chris doesn’t know what. He wants to say something back. But he can’t.

 

Chris nods, opens the door, and walks back out onto Blackwood Mountain. 

 

He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is bad and i'm sorry. if there's a part that you think is especially bad or can be fixed, feel free to tell me. anyway, it's like 3 in the morning and i'm probably going to regret posting something so late, buuuuuut oh well.


	3. (bang bang)

His world is a cacophony of screams and wind. 

 

Branches whip out from the edges of the trail, drag down his face and cut his arm; his legs and arms pump faster than they ever have; his lungs gasp and heave, rasping in the freezing air and flakes of ice and snow. The sun's still there, warm on his skin, but so is the Wendigo.

 

He can hear it, so far away from himself but there, ripping up behind him, smashing through cracking branches and crunching through the heavy blanket of snow. He can’t feel it, not yet, not really, but he will, he knows he will, and it will be so hot and sharp and disgusting; any second now the dirty nails will tear into his throat and rip his skull off of his spine-- he’ll be alone and cold… and for the second time--

 

Chris trips.

 

Something snags Chris’ ankle, and he falls sprawling into the snow. The bitter frost burns his skin, his glasses fly off his face and fall somewhere into the blurry snow, and-- and the sounds come closer. Screeching, shrieking, the heavy footfalls and rustling branches, what he swears to be barks; rabid, raging barks of a savage animal.

 

His mind is a whirring wasteland of buzzing and numb terror, but distantly he remembers the advice given to him, the advice he just gave to is friends, and he  _ stops. _ His hyperventilating quits dead into stone stillness, he forces his eyes to stop blinking against the cold his muscles to stop furiously attempting to kick itself away and run. He stops, and he lays dead still in the snow.

 

Chris can’t think straight. He’s going to die.

 

One second passes. His lungs burn. His skin burns. Everything hurts. Don’t move.

 

A series of stomps. The crack of branches and pine needles. He can’t see. He doesn’t move his eyes at all, just stares off at the smudge in front of him.

 

More steps, snarling, the clicking of jaws and teeth-- and then in his peripheral there’s movement-- he almost flinches, almost screams and runs but doesn’t. It comes closer and closer, towers over him with it’s fuzzy figure, and the dying sunlight is covered. After a few moments -- of silence but not silence, his heartbeat throbbing inside him and his vision darkening with his shriveling lungs -- it leans over his body. An arm swings over Chris’ eyes, he feels heat crawl over his body, a hard something bumps against his leg and--

 

Somewhere, he can still think: he thinks that he loves his mom, and that if the Wendigo is eating him, it’s at least not going to the Lodge, right?

 

A second. Two seconds. The growling is louder now. The heat moves over his face, and he feels breath on his cheek.

 

Chris blinks as his glasses are put back onto his nose.

 

Chris’ vision clears and a person stares over him. 

 

A person. It was just… it’s just the… The Stranger. He’s standing back up, shaking his head, and mumbling something under his breath.

 

_ Oh, fuck _ . Chris breathes, gasps, and coughs into the snow.  _ Fuck _ . He’s alive. It was… it was just the old man, not… not…he’s...

 

He’s alive. And the Stranger is here. Chris did it, he did, he just needs to… needs to get back…

 

The whining in his ears doesn’t stop. Neither does the rush in his stomach, his head. He thinks he’s going to throw up, but he doesn’t. Not this time. Maybe because there’s nothing left in his stomach.

 

“Alright. You can get up now, son,” the man grunts. Chris isn’t sure how he hears him, but his body does somehow.

 

Chris numbly rolls over and stands up. After a few seconds of leaning on the man’s arm, he can actually stay standing.

 

“Tried screaming for you to stop, but you just went and kept running like a damned fool,” the Stranger mutters, holding Chris up while he gasps. “You’re lucky my dogs listened to me, boy, or they would have killed you by now, with the way you were running.”

 

Chris nods and mutely notes the sound of soft panting; when he looks to the side he sees a scruffy, stocky dog laid down in the snow. Pawprints trail behind it and tear across a pattern of shoe prints Chris just finished sprinting in. Chris nods again.

 

It’s all he can do. His body hurts, so he mewls in pain too.

 

And then silence. More silence. Chris should… should say something, he needs to say something. He’s gotta get back. More silence. He can’t make his throat move. He can’t even feel scared or angry or anything all of a sudden. Just nothing. So he stands and blinks.

 

His hands don’t feel like they belong to him, not even when he feels the sting of those cuts, or when he bends his fingers. They might be getting frostbitten. Or maybe not. He doesn’t know.

 

Somewhere inside of Chris, he swears he feels like he’s going crazy, but he can’t tell anymore.

 

After an eternity, the Stranger sighs again. He looks from Chris to the sky back to Chris again, and groans under his breath. Giving a rough shrug, he adjusts the heavy equipment packed on his shoulder and rolls a nod.

 

“Alright,” he says gruffly. “Well, how about this? I walk you back up to that fancy Lodge, which I’m assuming you came from, while you calm down enough to tell me why in the hell you were walking around this mountain.”

 

Chris doesn’t feel himself nod again, or start walking. But his body does it.

 

* * *

 

 

“You shouldn’t have come to this mountain,” the Stranger huffs. “And if you did, you could have at least stayed inside. Maybe coming out here is just a game to you, but listen to me when I tell you: you don’t know the least of the horrors living here.”

 

Chris follows after the Stranger, an unlit emergency flare in his hand. The man’s wolf trots along behind him, brushing up against Chris’ legs and sniffing the air. The sun is dipping low, casting the sky in delicate gold and pink swirls; pine needles whip in a cold evening wind, and that same wind carries along the echoes of owls, rodents, and what sounds like a distant rotten monstrosity.

 

They don’t have too much time.

 

If nothing else, at least Chris can sort of think straight again. That-- that chase just got him freaked out, alright? And he’s fine now. He can get back to the lodge, and then it’s just a matter of waiting until morning. Assuming he’s not a raving lunatic, and his friends believed him earlier… this whole thing might just work out.

 

So Chris tries to ignore his pounding heart, the twitch of his hands and every individual crunch of the leaves. Though, it would help if this guy slowed down just a little; he knows they’re in a rush, he knows how fucking terrible of a situation they're in, but he can’t help it -- his lungs are constricted and hot, and the ghosts of pain still live in his ankle. He doesn't know how the old guy could go so fast with that heavy flamethrower anyways. It’s kind of unfair.

 

And if this old man would actually fucking believe him, he’d just be golden.

 

“I came out here looking for you, didn’t I? A-And if you have to know, those Wendigo fuckers already tore off my head, all right? I think I know how serious this is,” Chris bites.

 

The Stranger stops at that. Just for a second, he turns his head back to look at Chris, and then he keeps walking.

 

“Hmm. All right then. Where’s the totem? Assuming you saw one, and from the sounds of it, it was black. Have you got it with you?”

 

“I… no. I don’t remember. I might have dropped it when I was running, or it might be at the lodge or something. I-- listen, what does that matter? Shouldn’t we be focusing on getting there instead of talking about this? O-Okay; my friends are all still in danger here, and so are we.”

 

The Stranger sighs through his teeth and shakes his head like Chris is just some sort of annoyance-- and like he hasn’t, you know, just experienced death and rebirth in the same day, like he isn’t trying his hardest to keep his friends safe. Chris huffs out a hot breath, something tight in his chest, and rolls his eyes while his hands wrap around the flare tighter and _ tighter _ \--

 

“Hey. Calm down,” the Stranger says. “Trust me, boy, I know these Wendigos aren’t something you can walk away from unharmed. Neither is dying. Now I’m not going to make you talk about how whatever it is you saw affected you, because frankly I’m assuming that's the job of those friends of yours and not mine-- but I am gonna ask what exactly it is we’re dealing with, because it  _ is  _ my job to get you kids off this mountain in something that isn’t a body bag. You understand?”

 

Chris blinks. His hands slacken. He… yeah, he… he’s just…

 

He sighs. His body hurts, his pulse is hammering, and he literally died today. He sighs again.

 

“Yeah,” Chris mutters.”It was… I died a year from now. Tonight two of my best friends are murdered by these things, and we… we didn’t know why, and we weren’t even sure they were dead. So we came back up here on the anniversary of their disappearance, and…”

 

Chris doesn’t say anymore. He can’t. When he tries the screams and smells and touches are too real.

 

The Stranger grunts, “How many of ‘em? You know?”

 

“You said it was only one tonight, but next year… I can’t remember. More than one, though, I can tell you that. The fuckers swarmed me,” Chris laughs bitterly.

 

“How did we fare? Anyone else make it out alive?”

 

“Don’t know. I was  _ dead _ . So were you, by the way.”

 

The Stranger hums again. 

 

Chris scoffs, bitter and hot-- what, is- is that fucking all he has to say? All this shit is going on around him, and he can be… nonchalant about it?-- But… but then again... Chris shrugs it off. Lets it go.

 

The anger, the annoyance, the pure terror still clings to him, and so do those fuzzy pictures of nightmares and guns and the splatter of sickening gore; their fingers crawl in his chest and don’t let him go. It’s heavy and it’s buzzing and maddening inside of him, unending, uncaring, and so fucking _ tiring _ \-- he... can’t…  _ doesn’t _ have the energy to spend on being angry, no matter how much of a more pleasant alternative that is. He can’t afford to do that to the others. Because... he needs to do this. He needs to get to the Lodge, and make sure Hannah and Beth are still there, and Jess and Matt are still there, and make sure that… that Josh isn’t being fucking ripped to shreds in some freezing cold cave somewhere.

 

_ Focus _ .

 

So Chris shakes his head and tries not to collapse into the snow. He clutches his flare to his chest and searches the treeline. 

 

The Stranger walks on. Behind him, the dog surveys the area dutifully.

 

They all walk in a tense, tense silence.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Chris doesn’t remember walking up to the Lodge again. 

 

He doesn’t remember the way he twitched when was walking up and he saw-- saw  _ Ashley’s _ face in that window for the second time, when he saw her backing away from it. He doesn’t remember the choked, quiet scream in his throat, or the feeling of a thousand eyes, a million teeth, barreling down on him, ready to rip their nails into the flesh of his neck-- or the feeling of telling himself that  _ they’re not really there this time _ , but his body not listening. Of terrible shocks of nausea, of his hands shaking, of him furiously sprinting to the door, of his pounding on the wood and thrashing the handle in silent panic-- and then the Stranger put his hand on his shoulder, near his fucking neck near his fucking  _ throat _ \-- and- and that just made it worse, and--

 

It only happened in the matter of  _ seconds _ . Ashley didn’t abandon him this time, she backed away to unlock the door, Chris  _ knew _ that when he saw her, but he couldn’t tell himself that, so it didn’t matter. So Chris doesn’t remember that. Any of that. He doesn’t want to, so he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he blinks and Josh has opened the door for him. Ashley is shaking and confused, her hand still outstretched for the doorknob, like she was seconds away from opening it but didn’t get the chance.

 

When Chris looks at her, it hurts. So he looks at Josh. Josh, who gently grabs his arm and leads him inside. Josh, who is alive and stable and not tied up in the shed, or being torn apart by a disgusting nightmare of teeth and nails.

 

“Told you I would be there, Cochise,” Josh whispers. “Just had Ashley there while I helped Mike out with something, all right, bud?”

 

At that, Chris can think again.

 

Around him, the room stirs. Everyone has gathered in the main room, including Hannah and Beth (Thank God), who are now staring at him like he’s a  pathetic scared puppy -- which he might as well be at this point, he guesses. The others are still in the middle of shoving a cabinet in front of one of the windows, but look over at Chris as he comes in -- Chris takes a second to note that Mike’s face is swollen now, and he’s not sure if he should be proud of that or not.

 

He’s not sure of much right now.

 

Emily only scoffs and taps her foot to the floor-- until behind Chris, the Stranger ducks in. There are gasps, nods, and a few of them shaking their heads. Emily’s eyes go wide, and her rhythmic tapping stops in a split moment. 

 

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “I… Oh my God, Chris, you-- you can’t expect me to believe-- Please tell me this is just some really intense fucked up prank, Chris. This has got to … to be, like, your uncle or something.”

 

Chris doesn’t say anything to that. He can’t-- because now Hannah and Beth are there in front of him again, their fingernails done like he remembers, their hair hair and skin and eyes all in place, all real, all there and  _ alive _ . It’s already happened to him once, but now it happens again-- his heart lurches, like he’s seen a ghost, because he has. He stares at the two of them -- Hannah has a hand over her heart and is staring up at him with sparkling eyes, her fingers fitfully picking at the hem of her shirt while she gives him that  _ look _ ; Beth’s mouth is drawn in a thin white line, her forehead wrinkled like he always remembered, and her hands are so gentle when they cup his cheek for the second time. He can hear their voices as they whisper to him, can feel it hot on his skin when Hannah tearfully kisses the back of his palm, can  _ be _ with them again while they drag him to rest on the couch.

 

On the way, Josh lays a steady warm hand on his wrist, so him and so  _ there _ ; Ashley is shaky but alive and she doesn’t have that bruise on her face; the others -- Sam and Mike and Matt and Emily and even  _ Jessica _ \-- all of them are there. They’re crowded around the Stranger, pale and confused but not hurt, and-- and--

 

A-- A whole year. A whole _ f-fucking _ year with their friendship being rocky, and Hannah and Beth being dead. A year of not… of Josh being… And then another night-- a-- a fucking nightmare pulled right out of those old horror flicks, with the rest of them screaming, and the whirring blades and-- th-that whole prank Josh fucking pulled because he was off his meds, and all the  _ screaming _ . The screaming and the screaming and the  _ pain _ \--

 

But he did it. Chris did it.

 

He means, yeah, they’re not completely safe yet, but… the windows and doors are locked, the Stranger is here, and everyone is  _ alive _ . After all of that… he really did go back. He’s done all he can. It’s all… well, it’s probably up to luck at this point.

 

He  _ did _ it.

 

So Chris smiles, and he sinks into the couch cushions. He lets himself close his eyes -- he’s so damn  _ tired _ , he just wants to-- to crawl in a sobbing ball and then sleep for forty years, and then wake up and have all of them here. Have all of them back and--

 

\--His aches catch up with him in a second; he nearly reels over at the rising burning in his lungs and muscles, the steady throbbing stab lodged into his temples; he can still hear the lurch of his heartbeat, and feel the tingle of anxiety crawling hotly over him. His empty stomach rolls inside him, cramping up in time with his legs and feet. He has cuts all over him, and he’s cold-- he remembers now, because it stings and itches. It all crashes on him all at once, so heavy and… and  _ hard _ ...

 

His entire body lights up in dull pain, but sleep pulls on his everything.

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ , everything hurts. He lifts a hand to his forehead. He almost wishes he was still freaking out ‘cause… because wow, this is  _ not _ a fun alternative...

 

“Hey, he still seems pretty out of it,” he hears Josh mutter. “Ash, you think you can watch him while we go check out what this guy has to say?”

 

There’s a pause, then,”Oh, yeah, of course.”

 

Something dips down the couch beside him, but Chris focuses on trying to calm his breathing, and rubbing his aching head.

 

“Hey, Chris? Are you okay?” Ashley asks him.

 

Chris sighs. The darkness behind his eyelids rattle with a headache. “I-- yeah, Ash, I’ll be fine.”

 

He feels like Ash wants to hear more, but he doesn’t say anything else.

 

Silence. There’s silence, except for the conversation in the corner of the room.

 

“After this, you _ need _ to take it easy, Chris. You pushed yourself way too hard; I mean, I can still hear you wheezing. Do you need your inhaler or something?”

 

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s getting better. Thanks, Ash.”

 

Then the silence stretches on. The pain ebbs in Chris’ body for a few more minutes, but he just lolls his head to the back of the couch, allows the thing to cradle him while he feels like he’s falling apart. Chris just sits there, letting his thoughts calm to nothingness for a bit as the aches inside him fall in step with his breath. His vision starts to splotch behind his eyelids, his world cants to the side as a weight falls heavy on him.

 

The couch shifts again, as Ashley leans forward. Chris doesn’t pay it any attention. Just drifts. Smiles.

 

The conversation in the corner keeps going. Ashley whispers something Chris can’t hear. There’s a soft scratching noise, like something being moved in front of him.

 

Quiet.

 

\--And then everything fucking  _ stops _ .

 

Chris jumps up in a blind panic as Hannah screams; his eyes fly open, he whips his head to her--  _ what the fuck is happening to her is it the Wendigo is it- _ \- but she’s just standing there, her arm stretched out, shaking, pointing-- pointing towards him, they’re  _ all _ looking towards him, all of them staring at--

 

Chris, his heartbeat spiking, jerks his head around.

 

And… and--

 

His breath leaves him. His stomach drops. He… no, this can’t…  _ no no no no no no fuck _ this wasn’t supposed to happen--

 

Ashley is standing up beside the couch. 

 

The black totem is in her hand. 

 

She’s stares into it’s maw, her face blank.

 

And the void stares back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. i actually did it. i actually updated. how crazy is that?!
> 
> now, it's been awhile and i'm a little rusty, so if you feel like there were any parts that were really rough, tell me. 
> 
> also... strap in, kiddies... because it's time for The Angst.


	4. guilt

Ashley dies. And then she wakes up.

 

Chris watches as her jaw and hand go slack, the totem clattering to the floor.

 

It only takes a few seconds for her to start shaking.

 

Chris shakes his head, desperately holds his hands out to her; he doesn’t touch her, she’s so unstable, but-- God, he knows what’s happening to her; he knows that she just saw everything he did and more, and-- and she probably saw him die, and then… and then he doesn’t know when she died. Hell, who knows what the fuck she just had to witness, what happened  _ after _ Chris had his head ripped off?

 

It’s his damn fault, he wasn’t watching her, he was asleep on the couch and now-- fuck.  _ Fuck _ .

 

The rest of the room explodes into noise behind him, but Chris doesn’t notice. He thinks he hears Mike and Josh say something to him, but he can’t say anything back, and he can’t see them. Right now it’s just Ashley.

 

“Ash,” he whispers. His throat is tight. “You… you just gotta stay calm, Ash, and--”

 

His finger barely brushes her arm and she rips away from him in a savage jerk. A shriek tears out of her throat, screeches in his eardrums; she throws herself backwards, shaking, shivering, crying, her hands tearing at her own jaw, probing for _ something _ …

 

Then she sees Chris. Really  _ sees _ him. Her eyes are glassy.

 

Chris shakes his head. No, Ash. He can’t… he  _ can’t _ …

 

“Chris,” she coughs. Her buggy eyes go wide, and she brings twitching hands to her lips. Her body draws in on itself, and her face draws up in a sour pinch. God… she looks so  _ small _ .

 

“Chris,” she sobs again. She smashes her hands to the side of her head and yanks her hair. Chris reaches out to stop her but she thrashes her head back and forth. “Oh my God, Chris, oh my  _ God _ ,  _ ohmygodohmygodoh _ \--”

 

He gently folds his hands over her shoulders. They’re cold.

 

“Ashley, please, you…  _ breathe _ , alright? You’re okay--”

 

He almost collapses, almost screams, when she jerks her hands up and puts them on his chest, claws into his shirt with her fingernails-- but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think about it, he  _ can’t _ , not now. He tries to just look at her, to just breathe, to just rub her shoulders or something and--

 

“Chris, oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “It was too late, I was too late, I’m sorry you-- I told you to and I didn’t-- I’m  _ sorry _ , Chris--”

 

It’s too much. He doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t. Fuck, Ash, why did… did she have to…

 

“It’s okay, Ashley,” he whispers. It’s not enough, and he knows it’s not enough, and he doesn’t even know if it’s fucking true, but… but he has to say something; he has to calm her  _ down _ .

 

She just stares up at him. It hurts to look back at her, but when he tries to look away he can’t and so Chris tries not to puke on her or- or--

 

He watches her stare wildly up at him. Chris watches her numbly as she grabs his face, digs her nails into the flesh of his cheeks, bites her own lip. But he can’t stop her; he doesn’t have time; all he can do is look at her, and wonder what to do and then--

 

Ashley’s lips are on his.

 

Chris panics. It feels like he’s dying. He can feel her, just like before, before he went out to find Josh, she--  _ kissed  _ him and then Josh was gone and she was at the door she didn’t open it-- she  _ didn’t open it _ and-- and she feels the exact same, but now her hands are clawing at him, like the Wendigo, like their spindly fingers cutting into his skin--

 

She smells and feels and tastes too much like… like she  _ did _ , and he  _ can’t _ \--

 

Before he can realize he’s even doing it, Chris grabs Ashley’s face and rips it off of his. He pushes her away, off of him, and…

 

There’s a thud. 

 

Ashley sobs brokenly on the ground, her eyes squinted up at him. Chris looks away, because he has to.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “ _ Chris _ .”

 

She pushes herself off the floor and sprints across the room, her footsteps following her to a nearby room; the door slams with a deafening thud, and then the lodge comes back to life. Hannah desperately trots over to the door, after giving Chris a pinched expression of pain and confusion; Jess follows after her and anxiously taps her knuckles to the wooden frame. Calls out to Ash. Gets no answer except for wails and screams.

 

Everyone else is silent.

 

When Chris looks up, the rest of them are all just staring at him, eyes wide and standing stock still; Mike rubs at his bruised jaw, and flicks his eyes from Chris to the door Ashley ran into; Emily has both her hands to her chest, and is staring at him like he just lot his fucking mind. Which, yeah, he guesses he did.

 

God… he hit Ashley. He hit her. Okay, maybe he-he didn’t punch her or something, but he fucking threw her to the ground-- after she just saw who the fuck knows what, and when she needed him to not fucking lose it.

 

Chris snorts; so much for what he told Josh -- what he punched Josh and Mike in the face for.

 

When he laughs bitterly to himself, because if not then he might do something else, Sam and Matt both take a step forward. Yeah, Chris, just keep on giving them reasons to think you’re out of your damn mind, or just fucking with them. But hey, on the bright side, now that he fucked up and scarred Ashley for the rest of her damn life, he’s at least got some evidence as to all this shit being real. He snorts again, fights the awful burning in his throat and eyes.

 

Josh starts to walk towards him, but before he can the Stranger charges forward. The old man, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath, trudges across the room. Ripping the totem off the floor, where it tumbled with its face hidden against the wood, he tosses it up and down in his grip. He runs his fingers down the markings while using a hand to cover its maw, and then with a low grunt, turns to the others.

 

“This is staying with me, considering I can’t trust any of you with it,” he grunts. “Now before this one here decides to pass out or run off, I’m gonna tell you all this: you need more than this. These barricades you’ve set up might give you a few seconds, but if all Hell breaks loose you’ll need something better. Put up more. Grab your things now if you have to, while we’ve got a little bit of daylight to burn, but as soon as that sun goes down you get yourselves in here or down in that basement. Are we clear?”

 

Chris rubs his aching eyes and feels a sour smile stretch on his face. ‘ _ Before this one here decides to pass out or run off _ ’. Yeah. Not like another kid just watched herself die, and then had a well-justified melt down or anything, just--

 

No. No, stop. He needs to stop taking out his frustration on the Stranger. The guy is right, Chris  _ knows _ he’s right -- they need to focus on surviving and getting off the mountain, not on the horrible future they might be able to fix -- but he’s just--

 

Chris ignores what just happened with Ash. He pushes it away. His head hurts, and he pushes that away too, for what feels like the hundredth time; maybe if he’s lucky this might be the last, and him and Ash can figure this out and have a cry-fest later… but right now?… get off the mountain. Help the Stranger get them off the mountain.

 

No one else answers, so Chris does for them, “Yeah. Yeah, we got it.”

 

The Stranger doesn’t seem satisfied with that. Not coming from him. Chris doesn’t blame him.

 

“Okay, well that’s one. Seeing as how he’s unstable as anything, though, I think I’m gonna need someone else’s input. Or not. Ain’t my concern whether you believe me or listen to me or not, but if you need reason then now you’ve got two examples. So,” He stares down Josh, Sam and Mike in particular. “Are we clear?”

 

Another uncomfortable silence. Then Mike nods. So does Sam, and the rest of them follow.

 

“Yeah, alright, we get it,” Emily says, tossing her head and clicking her heel to the floor. “The crazy guy from the woods wants us to put up more shit so the the-- monsters or whatever won’t kill us. Trust me, I heard you the first time.”

 

The Stranger smiles grimly at her. “Word of advice: Wendigos can see movement, so I wouldn’t recommend running your mouth like that if they get in here.” He adjusts the flamethrower on his back, stuffs the totem into one of his pockets, and looks around the room one last time. “Now… you.”

 

He points to Sam, and she fidgets before taking a shaking step forward, her mouth a thin line.

 

“You seem like a competent girl. I’m giving the rest of the instructions to you, because frankly you’re the only one I trust to listen to a damn word I say. The rest of you can start getting ready for dusk.”

 

Chris is sure that the others say something to that, or complain, or something. He knows Josh calls out to him. But Chris just turns around and starts to walk up the stairs.

 

Get off the mountain. Help the stranger get them off the mountain.

 

He ignores Ashley’s screaming sobs, when Hannah gets her to open the door. He ignores her, and heads towards his room without looking back.

* * *

 

His guest room is like he remembers it. It’s not like he packed too much, if he’s thinking right, and so it’s mostly bare. Just a fancy-ass room with a nice bed. There’s a couple winter coats splayed out over the bed’s sheets, battered and smelling sweet -- so unlike his new soap, and that laundry detergent he bought when he finally moved out of his mom’s house. His backpack -- the old one, a faded yellow one with the strap haphazardly sewn back into place -- sits crumpled and empty right beside the door, its contents (clothes, mostly, along with some soap and stuff) folded and stacked neatly beside it on the floor.

 

His breath catching in his throat, Chris yanks his phone out from his pocket one more time. From under a splinter of glass, the date glares up him.

 

And then Chris doesn’t know how to feel. About what just happened with Ashley or-- or  _ anything _ . He went back. He died and he woke up again and … And everything is…

 

\--He needs to get ready. Pack up and help the others barricade, and everything.

 

Chris focuses on that and… and not on…

 

A scream carries up from under him, and the breath is crushed from his chest. It feels like the whole room moves, but that might just be his balance going.

 

He shakes his head. He throws everything into his bag and moves on. Just don’t think about it.

* * *

 

 

The hour or so (he’s not sure) that Chris helps the others passes by in a whir of color and noise. No one really talks to him while they move things around and check locks, with Chris off on his own or with Mike most of the time -- and honestly, he thinks it’s better that way. At least this way he doesn’t give them any more evidence of being completely insane. Besides, they should be focusing on Ashley and not him; she’s falling apart right now, and that wouldn’t be happening if he hadn’t fucked up in the first place. 

 

So the time whirs by, the sun dipping further on the horizon and counting down what little time they have left before the Wendigos prowl, looking for two girls who are supposed to die tonight.

 

When Mike, his face still puffy, says his first words to Chris all day and tells him to go down to the basement while he goes to see Ash, Chris is numb. His body hurts so bad he can barely feel it anymore, with all of those aches dulled to nothing but an echo of something he  _ should  _ feel, but doesn’t. He can’t think straight.

 

He’s beyond exhausted. He just wants to go home. But to do that, he needs to make sure everyone else is okay too. He’s gotta--

 

Then he steps into the basement, and his stomach flips. Something almost crumbles, and Chris barely holds himself together.

 

Because Josh is sitting on the floor, his hands in his pockets. As soon as Chris comes in he looks up to see him, and then stands up.

 

It had been a while since he’d last seen him. He means, when Josh invited them over here on the anniversary of his sister’s deaths. Things had… kind of fallen apart, after Hannah and Beth went missing, for Josh and Chris and everybody else, and then Chris had gone off to college on top of it all and-- and it kind of went from there. By the time he saw Josh that night, he wasn’t sure how long it had been.

 

And now? After all the twisted shit that went down?

 

Looking at him almost hurts, but Chris does anyway.

 

Josh walks forward and stops in front of him, his eyes looking past him before they settle onto Chris’ face. And-- And Chris has to look away for a second, because the expression on his face is so fucking awful. His eyes are tired and he doesn’t look good -- not like the shed,  _ never _ like the shed; it’s closer to when Chris watched that video and saw those few seconds when Josh mentioned Beth and Hannah. To when the others woke them both up on the morning they went missing, and they all looked so fucking heartbroken before they even gave them the news.

 

Immediately Chris’ heart plummets. Something happened, he knows it did because it  _ had _ to have if Josh is looking at him like that.

 

Chris starts to say something, anything, but Josh stops him.

 

“Listen, Chris,” he says. “I don’t know what I did to you guys, alright? But-- but I  _ promise _ you, bro, I’m not going to--”

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Chris snaps.

 

Because he can’t do this. Because obviously he’s heard Ashley say something-- of course he has, Chris should have known that would happen-- and he can’t think of what happened with Josh right now. It-- he can’t hear Josh apologize for that shit, any of it; he should want that, after what Josh did to all of them, and he  _ knows _ that. But… but it wasn’t--

 

Josh flinches, and Chris almost wants to throw up. Or scream or something.

 

He just shakes his head. “Josh, you don’t have to… you were sick, alright? Whatever you heard about, it’s… you were off your meds, okay, and none of that stuff was your fault.”

 

And it wasn’t, was it? Josh didn’t know what the hell he was doing; he was just angry and scared-- and-- and he wouldn't have been if they had all been looking out for him instead of tossing him aside and letting him fend for himself-- all while he was probably devastated because his sisters were fucking  _ dead _ \--

 

But no! Instead they all--  _ Chris _ just got into that stupid fucking argument with him instead of just being there for him, then he wasn’t there for him like he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be his friend, right?! And he was just dealing with so much shit that he just--

 

“Chris?”

 

Josh’s hand is on his arm in a second. When Chris looks up at him, all he sees is the same damn look everybody’s given him all day. Concern or pity, or something.

 

Chris almost laughs. Yeah. Josh is the one whose sisters died, and who got thrown into a shed, and he’s the one looking at Chris like he’s some helpless animal. When  _ Chris _ is the one who probably could have stopped all of that shit from happening in the first place.

 

Something inside of him screams that he needs to calm down and focus on getting out of here alive, but he can’t hear it. Not really.

 

No matter what Josh did to him, Chris doesn’t care. He was Josh’s friend and he let him down. He let Josh get to the point that he could barely form coherent sentences he was so out of it and then-- he just left him out there in the damn snow with Wendigos and he  _ didn’t get back in time _ \-- Plus before that Josh was getting cut open right in front of him, screaming and crying and asking what he had done wrong, while Ash--

 

Ashley. Chris’ hands curl into fists. If he listens close enough, he can hear that she’s still sobbing. He couldn’t even keep Ash from looking at the totem, and now she’s just as fucked up as he is. He had tried to  _ shoot _ her--

 

\--A-And all of that  _ fucking shit _ would have never happened if he hadn’t gotten drunk and passed out like an asshole, instead of being there to go after Hannah and Beth _ like he should have been _ \--

 

Josh is still looking at him.

 

Chris blinks. His hands are shaking. His heart thuds. He-- he should calm down. Josh is feeling guilty about the prank thing, and that’s not fair. Plus Chris should be thinking about getting the others down here in the basement, right?

 

He clears his throat and shakes his head at Josh. It’s hard, but he does it. He still can’t breathe right.

 

“Seriously, Josh, don’t worry about it. If anything, it’s… I mean,  _ I _ was the one who--”

 

He chokes up. He-- he can’t-- Chris can feel his eyes start to burn but he  _ can’t _ right now; he’s gotta make sure that everybody…

 

Chris can feel his face pinch. His hands shaking, he wipes his eyes. He feels like he’s dying, he’s shivering so bad. It’s all just repeating, going over and over-- every single damn thing that happened to him, that he  _ did _ : his fist connecting with a jaw, his hand on a fucking trigger, him putting up missing posters, everything just a cyclone of screaming and Jess being murdered and Josh being a murderer and Josh being dead and then-- Wendigos behind him, their breath on his neck because Ashley _ didn’t open the _ \--

 

\--No! No, because  _ Chris _ didn’t choose to shoot himself instead-- instead of letting Ash think he had saved her and pointing a goddamn  _ gun _ at her head--

 

A few tears roll down Chris’ cheeks. He can’t stop them.

 

Josh wraps his arms around him, and he crumbles.

 

A pathetic noise croaks out of his throat. He’s shaking. Fat tears stream down his face. He lets out a broken sob as Josh hugs him tighter and smashes his face into his shoulder. Chris throws his arms out, around Josh’s back, his fingers desperately clawing at him like Josh is his final lifeline; his fingernails ball up his shirt beneath his hands -- because it’s something there, something solid, something warm. He almost collapses on him when his shaking knees buckle, but Josh holds him.

 

_ God _ . He-- Everything was so fucked up. Hannah and Beth were missing. Dead. Josh wouldn’t fucking talk to him. The others were so distant, they never saw each other. And when they finally did-- when they finally  _ fucking did _ , after so damn  _ long _ …

 

He died! They fucking killed him, and it hurt so fucking  _ bad _ \-- and before that-- he-- they--

 

\--Suddenly, all he can remember from that night is the screams.

 

Chris chokes a sob into the crook of Josh’s neck. He shivers. Josh only holds him tighter. Chris can feel as he rubs his shoulder blades, places a warm, heavy hand at the back of his head. Josh cradles him close, crushes into him, and Chris does too, because he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets go.

 

“I’m so  _ sorry _ ,” Chris coughs. “I let you down, man, it was all my fault, I--”

 

Josh shushes him and shakes his head. Chris can feel him, his warmth bleeding into his cold skin; his body almost holding up his whole weight; his head moving as he shakes it; the fingers on his head moving, shaking as they pull him close.

 

“You can’t do that, Chris. I don’t know what the fuck happened, bro, but you have  _ got _ to listen to me, o-okay? You just saved my sisters. Alright? And I will  _ never _ be able to thank you enough for that.”

 

Chris just sobs. It’s all he can do. He’s not sure what he’s feeling anymore. So much shit happened to him. So much  _ fucked up shit _ , and people died, and people hurt each other, and Chris  _ isn’t _ fucking okay.

 

But Josh’s heartbeat is still there, pounding against Chris’ skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was really late. And also not very good, I think. It was giving me a lot of trouble (especially sorry if that ending seems abrupt; please feel free to give me suggestions on it or something), but... hey! I got it done, I guess. I hope you could get some enjoyment out of it. After this, things will start to change up a bit.


	5. tag, you're it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i actually updated. sorry it took so long. also, sorry if this chapter is super bad. it should get better after this, this chapter was just giving me tons of trouble. again, sorry

Sam walks out of the room, her hands clasped firmly around her suitcase, and sighs. Behind her, Ashley shuffles around beside Matt and Mike. Her face is still wet, and she’s still whimpering quietly. Her fingers are strangling themselves in her shirt while her face twists up and--

 

Sam just wishes everybody was okay. Seriously, first there was that dumb prank that she was going to let them go through with, and now… now  _ this _ . The only reason she knows any of what Chris and Ash had to go through is because she heard some of it firsthand, with one of her best friends sobbing on her arm for the last few hours. And-- And Sam means that Ash is a  _ wreck _ \-- sure she’s not crying anymore, but that might even be worse. At least then she was actually talking, instead of just… just  _ staring _ . And who  _ knows _ how Chris is doing right now.

 

Actually, that’s kind of why she’s going down to the basement first. Ashley already seems kind of touchy about going down there, and if Chris is still panicking then this will all go to hell again in a heartbeat.

 

Sam sighs again, tosses Ashley a small smile, and then starts her walk to the basement while the others go pack up the rest of their things. The sun is dipping below the horizon now, the sky turning a pale gray behind the covered windows, and if they want to be in that basement before night falls then they need to go  _ now _ .

 

By the time she’s descended the stairs, she still isn’t sure what to expect. By the time she’s opened the door, her heart has plummeted already.

 

When she slowly peeks inside, the heavy door creaking behind her, she doesn’t know whether she wants to cry or not. Because Chris  _ isn’t _ good. And, by looking at him, neither is Josh. Great.

 

The two of them are sitting on the floor, Josh’s back to the wall and his head craned up to stare at the ceiling. His face is pale -- paler than normal -- and he’s closed off. He just looks so miserable, his eyes shining while he leaning up against the hard wall, and Sam just hopes he gets some sleep before all this is done; because Josh is  _ worried _ . She can tell. And  _ Chris _ …

 

“Hey,” Sam whispers. She tries to shoot them both a smile. It doesn’t work, but she tried. “Is he doing okay?”

 

Josh flinches at the sound of her voice, but after seeing who it is just shrugs and gives a crooked wince. Shifts slightly and pets at Chris’ hair.

 

… Chris is curled up at Josh’s front, his arms crushed to his chest and still shivering; his fingers tangle up in Josh’s shirt, while his face is buried into Josh’s neck. Sam can’t see him very well, not from this angle, but even from here she can see his heavy breathing, the streaks of tears on one of his cheeks, the splotch of wetness on Josh’s shirt where Chris’ head is lying. Josh has his arms wrapped around him and one hand at the back of his head, gently petting him while they both fall apart.

 

Josh clears his throat. Shrugs again. “As ‘okay’ as he can be. He’s asleep, I think.”

 

Sam nods. “That’s good. After all that running around he did, I don’t blame him.”

 

Something sits heavy in her chest, but she pushes it aside and places her heavy bags down on the floor out of the way. Then she sighs, walks over to the two of them, sighs again, and sits down at Josh’s side. There’s a silence, then. Something harsh and weighty sits in the air, broken only by the sound of walking around upstairs, and for a few seconds Sam just studies Josh’s face, the way Chris fidgets in his sleep.

 

Slowly, she looks into Josh’s eyes, and gives a wan smile. “What about you? Are you okay?”

 

Josh shrugs, his teeth pulling at his lips. “Just fine.”

 

And that’s bullshit. But… it’s not like Sam can really get to him when he’s being stubborn like this anyway, and now’s probably not a good time to deal with this -- they’ve already got two people out of it, and they’re not close to being off this mountain yet. Maybe she can save this until morning; she is not going to let Joshua Washington -- or Chris or Ash or- or _ anybody _ for that matter -- go off to panic alone.

 

Unlike what she would have apparently done if Hannah and Beth had gone off and died tonight, if Ashley is anything to go by.

 

No.  _ No _ \-- Sam sighs and shakes her head. She is not gonna let that get to her. Not right now. It’ll be fine.

 

So she shoots Josh another smile through the pure  _ worry _ flowing through her chest, and lightly pats him on the shoulder. “Well, okay. But if you or Chris or anybody need anything… I’ll be right here. Alright?”

 

Josh grins, something tiny and barely a smile, but Sam calls it a victory.

 

They’re all sitting in silence when the others finally walk in; Emily and Mike come down first, Em’s heels clicking on the stairs and Mike’s face still bruised (he deserves it); next is Ashley -- she’s so frail and fragile, shaking as she descends; she pulls and rips at her hair like she has been for an hour, and her glassy eyes stare dully to the floor. Behind her Jessica has a hand folded over Ash’s shoulder, and Matt stares at the back of all their heads in pure worry.

 

As soon as Josh catches a glimpse of Ashley, he flinches and turns his gaze to the floor. Chris shifts in his arms with a tiny whimper.

 

While the others pile into the basement, Ashley just slumps onto the floor. She curls into a ball, her arms crushing her knees to her chest like her life depends on it. Her face is dull and lifeless.

 

_ God _ , Sam wishes that everyone was okay.

 

* * *

 

The world tilts out of control, the ground shaking with guttural shrieks. He’s tossed to the side like a limp ragdoll as everything blurs and he’s smashed to the ground; then there’s a stinging in his mouth, his head, like he swallowed shards of glass-- there’s red, so much red, he can feel the glass in his mouth and he tries with shivering hands to gently pry it from his mouth, to end the itching  _ pain _ , but he can’t, because he can’t see--

 

Then it all clears, to a cold clarity, and he’s in the snow and it’s cold, so _ cold _ . His lips are dripping black, a blackish red, into a puddle all around him, and his hands are cold and sticky and he can’t move his arms right-- because they’re not  _ his _ , God, they’re not his hands, they’re--

 

His fingers are long, so sickly gray and covered in blood at the tips; that screams at him, loud and wrong inside him: Wendigo. God, they got him, they got him-- and it’s- it’s not glass those are  _ teeth _ , what did they _ do to him what did  _ **_he_ ** _ do _ ?!

 

Josh. He looks up, through the ocean of blood that he’s slowly drowning in, and through the congealed waves Chris sees Josh’s face. No, God, not his face. His head. Josh’s head is laying there, with glassy eyes and the screaming whisper of saw blades that tear up everything in splotches of gross red.

 

He can’t breathe. Chris can’t breathe, he’s drowning, his mouth tastes like rust, his neck hurts, his  _ throat _ hurts, he--

 

He jerks awake with a silent scream, then locks his body -- he doesn’t move; he’s not making that mistake again. He already watched that old man get his head torn off because of him, alright, he’s not doing it again, he’s got to get Josh out of the shed and find Jess somehow and--

 

Then Chris blinks, and Josh’s alive, healthy, not-bruised face is staring at him.

 

He says something, but Chris doesn’t hear him right. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and his hands are clammy. Below him, the basement floor cuts hard and cold into the skin of his fingertips. 

 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . It wasn’t-- it isn’t… a dream. The whole totem-vision thing, he means.

 

Christopher almost sobs, but doesn’t. Thanks to the cold hard stare Josh is giving him, he’s able to push past the mutated visions of blood and viscera seared into his brain. Instead, in a shocking wave, yesterday’s events crash into him, and his world clicks into a startling clarity at the sunlight just barely filtering through down the basement stairs. Above him he hears the muted, quiet whispers of Sam and the Stranger.

 

“Chris? We gotta go, man,” Josh says for the second time.

 

Chris only nods against the thick knot lodged in his throat, and after a second he rolls over and struggles to lift his shaking body. Josh holds a hand out to him, and he almost rejects it-- somehow, seeing Josh’s face after that nightmare (the one he had and the one he just lived through yesterday) isn’t making him feel too much better-- there’s still a lot of blood and guts and screaming attached to Josh, wafting around him like carnal ghosts, like afterimages burned into the backs of Chris’ eyes. But he does anyway, because it’s  _ Josh _ . And… and he hasn’t gotten the chance to see him like this in a long time...

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he chokes out, his shivering hand clutching his friend’s. He ignores the memory of Josh’s head laying in an ocean of blood.  It’s hard, but he does it. “Just… give me a second.”

 

As soon as Josh helps him up, smiles at him a little, Chris feels a little less sick. He still feels like he’s going to have a heart attack any second, don’t get him wrong. But he’s better.

 

As “better” as he can be, at least.

 

Josh gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder (he can probably tell Chris was having a nightmare; he could always tell, since they were kids), then leans down to scoop up two bags from the floor. Chris can recognize one of them as his, the old battered one from upstairs that smells too much like a year ago.

 

“It’s dawn,” Josh drawls, waving for Chris to follow him as he slowly walks towards the stairs. “The sun just came up a few minutes ago. You good to leave, bro?”

 

He’s not. Chris’ heart still lurches, his head still pounds, and there’s something inside him that feels like a stretching rubber band, yanked so thin it’s about to snap-- because even if the sun’s out… hell, he just saw those fucking things, and one of those monstrosities was supposed to kill Beth and Hannah last night but didn’t; now they're forced to crawl back down this same murderous mountain, the one that was supposed to be fun and relaxing before it was torn apart by demonic creatures out for blood, all while knowing those fuckers are still out there. Waiting for the two girls they didn’t get this time.

 

His pulse jumps at the thought of seeing Hannah and Beth torn apart right in front of him. His throat stings with the phantoms of bloody claws.

 

But he sure as hell doesn’t want to stay here, either.

 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “You mind telling me what we’re doing after this?”

 

Josh nods, rubs his hands on his pants. It’s almost too familiar. “Talked about it when you were out. After we get down the mountain, we’re heading out to a little cabin my family owns out by the closest town. ‘Til we figure all this out.”

 

Chris does his best to make his little laugh sound real. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t. “Hold on. You’re telling me that you own a whole mountain, a lodge, and some cabin somewhere, but you don’t have a cell tower? I almost feel like I’m owed something. You know, just in compensation.”

 

“Not my decision,” Josh says, taking a few steps. Chris starts up right behind him, his hands twitching. “Gotta ask my dad about that one. Maybe when we get back I can get him to write a check to the National Bank of Chris.”

 

“Better be a blank check.” He laughs again, and even he thinks this one sounds hard and cold and bitter. “It was hard enough paying for college the first time.”

 

Silence.

 

Chris walks up a few more steps, and as he’s creaking up he can hear everyone moving about upstairs. An anxious fluttering weighs hotly in his stomach, tearing him up from the inside, and it all bubbles and boils as he tries to breathe through his nose. He’s still exhausted and half-asleep. His mouth tastes like puke. This little banter he’s having right now should be making him feel better, but instead all it is, is this ache.

 

It feels like things are going unsaid, because they are, but Chris can’t talk about it here. He can’t say anything about any of it ( _ unanswered phone calls and masks and saws and a fist connecting to his face and sheds and-- _ ), he  _ can’t _ , not now. And Josh won’t say anything, Chris knows he won’t, since he barely knows all the shit he did, and if he does know anything it’s because of some shit Ash blamed him for and he doesn’t deserve it, not really, but at the same time he does, so he’s probably, like, completely freaking out. Just like Chris is.

 

So the rest of the walk up is a tense silence.

 

When the two of them get to the foyer, everyone has already gathered in a tight knot at the doors. Sweet pink rays of early sunlight creep in through cracks under the door, lighting everyone up warmly from underneath. The Stranger says nothing to him as he walks in, just nods at him and continues moving; he takes long, heavy steps around the room, glaring at windows and the front door as the flamethrower on his back jostles. At his feet, a stocky wolf plods in circles, panting with its nose to the floor. Outside, he can hear the huffs and quiet barks of another dog running patrol, snuffing for Wendigos ready to tear his head off a second time.

 

And… there’s everyone. Sam has her arms around herself, standing beside Matt, who has a little pistol in his hand. Emily grimly taps her foot beside Mike, who also has a gun ( _ don’t look at him, you’re not in the shed anymore _ ), and Jessica has her hands folded over Ashley’s slumped shoulders.

 

God, Ashley looks like hell. Chris catches sight of her, and then he has to look away because if he stares at her blank face then he might just fall apart. He tears his head away with a shaky gasp, then forces himself to ignore that she’s there. That he pointed a gun at her face, and that she left him to die.

 

He blinks, and Hannah and Beth are in front of him. For a second he just can’t beleive it again, it’s all too much-- but that's Beth’s face and Hannah’s hair and God, after all this time they’re alive. He doesn’t-- h-he doesn’t care if this isn’t fucking real, if this turns out be some sort of complicated fever dream, because they’re here, and you can’t expect him to not be happy that they’re alive again. He… he put up missing posters and stared at their pictures for months, for Christ’s sake.

 

Chris smiles brokenly, and pulls the two of them into a hug like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

 

“Hey, Chris,” Hannah sniffs into his shoulder. “Are you doing okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Beth nods. “I… God, Chris, I…”

 

Chris can’t say anything, so he doesn’t. He just holds onto them, drinks them in, remembers what they look like and what they sound like and what they smell like and God they’re alive it’s been a year and they’re here back with him again. They were dead for a whole fucking _ year  _ but they’re back.

 

Then slowly, achingly, he pulls back.

 

“Sorry for getting drunk at your fifteenth birthday party,” he manages to whisper.

 

Beth shakes her head with shimmering eyes. Hannah opens her mouth to say something-- but then, with a rough grunt, the Stranger rips their attention away.

 

Grudgingly, Chris turns around, ignores the hot fingers of anger curling in his chest-- this man is the only chance they have at getting out of this Hellhole, of getting down from Blackwood with Hannah and Beth still with them.

 

“Alright,” the Stranger barks. “Listen closely, because I’m only saying this once.”

 

Everyone gathers around him; Josh hovers at Chris’ side as they all cluster by the door. They’re doing this. God, they’re actually going to make it off this fucking mountain.

 

The Stranger rolls his head with a tired pop, his flamethrower rattling as he adjusts it on his shoulders. He gives a sharp whistle through his teeth, one that Ashley jolts at as if she’s been burned, and then his dog shoots out the door with a practiced shove. Then the old man clears his throat again, and scrolls his gaze over everyone in the room.

 

“We are going down to the cable cars. You will follow me down, and you will all stay in a group. That one,” he points to Mike, “Will be in the back. The four of you,“ Han, then Beth, then Chris, then Ashley, “Are staying in the middle. The rest of you can figure it out for yourselves. You’re gonna stay in the group, and we’re gonna go down this mountain. You stay quiet, and if I say to do something, then you do it. The Wendigos aren’t too partial to the sunlight, but if they’re hungry enough then there’s no telling if they’ll show up. Keep up, shut up, and stay with me if you don’t want to die. You got that?”

 

Chris doesn’t say anything, but nods instead. At this point, the nerves lodged in his throat will suffocate him before the Wendigos get a chance.

 

The Stranger turns to a nearby table, and Chris can feel his hands itch. Because there’s the shotgun. You know,  _ that _ one. The one he can remember clutching desperately in his hands, the surface scratching at his aching palms, the barrel shaking, the thing kicking back as a shell just barely tore through gnarled pale skin.

 

“Didn’t get to see you use this,” the old man grunts, picking it up. “How’d it do?”

 

Chris licks his lips and does his best to push through the choking anxiety laying over him like a lead blanket. His chest burns.“It got through a couple of them, I guess. Knocked them back. I mean, it’s not like it did me any good though.”

 

The Stranger shoves the shotgun into his hands anyway. Stares hard into his eyes. Chris nearly has to tear his eyes away, almost drops the shotgun, because not only is this creepy and uncomfortable-- but the faint outline of the black totem suddenly hangs heavy and sharp against the old man’s palm, faintly echoing in its ethereal whisper.

 

Across the room, Ashley twitches.

 

“Made it longer than me, anyway,” he mutters. “I didn’t get to save your friends last time. Hell, I failed avenging them. But this time, I’m not going to let that happen.” He nods, and the sour smile curling up the side of his face is grim and final. “And neither are you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Chris figures that if the situation was different, the walk down would actually be nice. After all, he remembers the first time he was down here (this time, technically), walking down trails, looking at squirrels. The pine trees hang over them like imposing monoliths, bitterly cold but at the same time warm; early morning sunlight filters through gaps in the icy needles, sending pale honeyglow pooling across the forest floor like puddles of refracting sun. Birds chirp overhead, and the sound of shoes crunching through fresh snow is all that breaks the silence. 

 

It’s nice. Or, it would be. Maybe if this place wasn’t a murderous shithole, or he hadn’t gotten his head ripped off. Like, Chris would give anything for this to just be a camping trip or something.

 

But that’s not what this is. And that’s not what’s important right now. His heart hurts.

 

There’s a rustle, one that almost stops his heart, but it’s only a bird.

 

Chris walks down in the middle of the pack, his chest on fire. Hannah, Beth and Ashley are behind him, their breath visibly coiling up into the cold air. In front of him, Josh has an emergency flare clutched in a shaking fist. They’re all quiet, silent, still, except for their soft footsteps and the monotonous rattle of the Stranger’s flamethrower as it shifts on his shoulders. A wolf, shaggy and panting, paces at Mike’s side; beside him is Jessica -- her mouth is a thin line, her manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm, and Chris thinks that this is almost exactly what she looked like that last time he saw her, before she was suddenly, horribly  _ dead _ .

 

Hannah, Beth, Jessica, and Josh. Everyone else. Already lost them once.

 

He blinks. Stops dead. But the Stranger doesn’t react so he keeps going. He swears he just felt something hard at his throat, but he knows for a fact that he didn’t. His hands are clammy with sweat.

 

God. Fuck, Chris can’t mess this up. He can’t get the Stranger killed again, he can’t fucking choose between Ashley and Josh again, he can’t do any of that shit, god he  _ really can’t fuck this up. _

 

He hasn’t been breathing. He can tell because when he breathes out again it feels like there are claws tearing him apart. His hands are shivering now, the shotgun even heavier in his grip, sagging him down-- for a second, just one second, he lets himself smash the heel of one of his palms against the bridge of his nose. Breathes, or tries to. Doesn’t work. And now all of him is shaking why is this happening, why now, when they’ve already-- he’s already gone through this, went out here _ alone _ already (maybe that’s the problem; after all, if a Wendigo came after him when he was alone, there would be nothing of value to be lost, not like now)-- he swears he sees a shape in the corner of his eye and a cold terror stabs him in the chest--

 

“Chris,” Josh says. It’s the first thing anyone’s said since they opened up that damn (screaming, crying, Ashley’s face behind the glass) door.

 

“‘M good,” Chris coughs. He shrugs and starts walking again. He didn’t realize he had stopped until now. “Really, bro, just… it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

 

Behind the both of them, Ashley hums. It’s a short, sad sound, and then nothing at all. Chris stares at her for a second like she slapped him across the face, and then turns back to scouting for signs of Wendigos. He ignores Josh’s look. In fact, he ignores Josh’s everything-- everyone’s everything, actually, since half of them are looking into him now like he’s about to pass out (because he is).

 

It’s hard enough keeping it together as it is alright, he doesn’t need everyone else taking fucking bets on how long until he falls apart again. He knows he’s fucked up, they can all stop  _ staring _ now--

 

He doesn’t mean that though. Really, he doesn’t. His head is pounding.

 

The awkward quiet is only broken a few minutes later when the Stranger grunts heavy under his breath, and throws his head back. For a split second a panic rolls over all of them in a sick wave-- but then he just casually shrugs at his flamethrower again.

 

“Hey,” he calls back. “That one back there Josh?”

 

A pause, then, “Yeah?”

 

He waves a hand. “Get up here for a second. Looking pretty clear, should be good to move around.”

 

For a second Josh just stands rooted in place; as they’re headed down an incline, Chris comes close to ramming into his shoulder blades, too focused on boring his glare into the treeline to see him stop. Josh looks at back at him, his eyes concerned and hard. Then he shrugs, something that’s supposed to be relaxed but isn’t, and heads up to hang slightly behind the Stranger’s gait. The white wolf padding around trots upwards to him, and Josh anxiously pats it on the head with a hesitant hand. Josh was always kind of scared of dogs, Chris remembers.

 

And then they’re whispering about something.

 

After a few moments Chris feels a hand clasp his own and almost vomits but doesn’t, and then he realizes it’s Beth. She doesn’t say anything, just grips onto him.

 

It should make it better. It doesn’t. Neither does the fact that the Stranger is probably telling Josh about the Wendigos, about what they do to you-- or about what those Wendigos actually  _ did _ to him, while he was tied up in a shed spitting gibberish and blood. So Chris turns his strained vision out to the trees again. Gulps past a hot weight stuck in his chest.

 

A shadow flies across the treeline.

 

A bird, Chris tells himself.

 

In front, the whispers are getting louder, but Chris doesn’t listen. He doesn’t think he can hear about all this shit, not right now. He darts his eyes around the ground, at both sides of the trail. It feels like his eyes are too big for his head, like his fingernails will break on the shotgun.

 

A jump of movement behind the far-away trees.

 

A squirrel, Chris tells himself. The Wendigos only come out in the day if they’re desperate. Fuckers should have enough to eat out here. Right?

 

Beth’s hand shakes in his. Or maybe that’s him shivering. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. All Chris knows is that they’re getting off this mountain. Just a ways to the cable cars, and then--

 

There’s a shift at the corner of his eyes, far away but still there.

 

Just the wind, Chris tells--

 

The wolf growls.

 

Everyone stops dead.

 

The Stranger barks at Josh to get back and he does, sprinting back to stand stock-still at Chris’ left side.

 

Chris doesn’t register much of what happens, then. He doesn’t hear Ashley’s whimpers of panic behind him being strangled behind Beth’s hands. He doesn’t see the Stranger go stiff and yank roughly at his flamethrower. He doesn’t see everyone around him suck in a rasping breath and hang onto it with shaking fervor; it all smears around him, pooling into a cloud of numb panic. Because at the corner of his eye, there’s a twitch. In front of him, a shadow creeps through the pine needles. The old man’s wolf dutifully locks up, ready to sprint off as a distraction. In front of them-- no, not just in front, around, all around them, like they’re fish trapped in a fucking barrel, like it’s exploding across every inch of the mountainside-- a sound echoes off the trees, reverberates in his chest, echoes in his head in an endless cacophony of noise--

 

It’s Chris. His scream. Only it didn’t come from his mouth. It came from further in the woods. Numbly, he thinks that it sounds like the one he must have made yesterday, when he first dropped that totem to the snow.

 

The wolf explodes off, tears a path down through branches and fallen leaves. It barks, and howls, and around them somewhere another wolf does the same.

 

But when there’s another flicker of movement in the trees, it’s definitely going towards the kids. The girls that it didn’t kill last night.

 

Chris’ vision goes blank, and when it comes back it feels like he’s going to die.

 

In front of them, yards in front of the Stranger, a pale skinny body thrashes its way to the ground.


	6. glory and gore

For a second Chris can't sense anything. It all fades to a dull silence, a ring that tears up through him and leaves him feeling hollow. His stomach drops from him, his hands go numb, his mouth twitches-- because it's too much, it's all too much.   
  
The Wendigo is right there. Its spindly limbs play out in the snowy trail, its razor fingers digging black trenches into rock and dirt. Just seeing it, knowing that-- fuck, all of this is real, everything he went through actually happened to him, it-- he can't-- there were fingers in his throat that tore him open like he was a paper bag, with so much screaming and blood and _ pain _ \--   
  
And the fucker is standing right there.   
  
For just a second, Chris almost panics, almost screams, almost drops faint into the bitter cold. But he doesn't.    
  
Ash is right behind him, stock still, and around him is everyone else he already lost tonight. He's not going to let that happen, he  _ can't _ , not when he's the one who came back, when he's the one with the shotgun in his hands.   
  
So Chris goes tries to go numb (it’s not working it’s not working it’s not working but he has to _ try _ ), locks his body, and stares unblinking at the fleshy monstrosity that's only a few yards away from his friends. These fuckers aren't getting anyone. Not this time. Not anybody. Please.   
  
Then its near-silence.   
  
Everyone around him, even the stranger, have gone invisible to the creature; the most movement from anyone is the beating of their hearts, maybe the twitching of a couple fingers. The Wendigo lifts up its grotesque skull with a click at the back of its throat, a sound like gargling rocks and dead birds; it snuffs at the air, jerking and twisting its neck around the cold air. Searching.   
  
Even as it crawls forward on its toothpick-limbs smeared with blood, Chris doesn't move; his lungs fill with hot ice, his eyes glaze over with a cold sting. Even as the gargles become louder, as the Wendigo, curious and frustrated, screeches low beneath its breath. As Chris realizes, with a tiny lurch of his heart that makes the monster blink, that this thing almost looks like a person. That it was a person, one just like any of them, someone that was so terrified and desperate and angry that they--   
  
_ There's a pool of blood and Josh's head is lying on the floor and his fingers aren't his they're knives-- _ __   
  
No. No, fuck. Focus, focus, god.   
  
The Wendigo climb closer, slowly, steadily. Its ragged teeth gnash at the air as it open its mouth to huff in hot scents. When it spiders around, its fingers gripping tree bark, no one makes a sound. In the forest there are echoes of barks and howls, dogs tearing at trees in an attempt to draw its attention away, but it doesn't move, just wanders around at the trail. Chris guesses it probably likes the taste of human better. And they're probably more filling than a dog, and they're slower, so why not, right?   
  
Chris remembers how it felt to have his head torn off, to faintly see his own body separated from his everything else before it all finally shut down. He imagines this thing, standing over his cold mangled body, tearing off chunks and choking them down its throat until there's nothing left but the stench of a corpse.   
  
His stomach fills with hot bile. He's going light-headed. His chest is about to explode. Maybe it's from not breathing. Maybe it's because he's never been this fucking afraid before.   
  
His eyes are dry, and he physically can't keep himself from blinking once. His heartbeat spikes as his body forces its own eyes to shut, and then when he's done blinking he swears that the Wendigo just moved a few feet-- lurched forward when it caught even the tiniest bit of movement. He struggles to force his body to cooperate, for his fluttering heart not to beat out of his fiery chest, or for him not to suck in a breath.   
  
Somewhere in the group, there's a small whimper. 

 

There's a click, a gurgle, and the Wendigo leaps forward again; everyone shifts slightly, flinches-- Chris sees pistols twitch, and feet jerk just slightly, and his grip on the shotgun tightens. He nearly panics there again, because the Wendigo is sniffing at an erratic pace, crawling forward on its rust-stained stomach with its long pale fingers. But it only moves slightly at everyone's flinch; its body rips to the side in a savage jerk, towards the faraway noise of howling and rustling branches, and for one single second Chris thinks, hopes with his entire being, that there it goes, it's going away. If it goes for the dogs then they may have time to make a sprint to the cable cars. That’s right, fucker, keep moving, you’re not getting anyone, you’re not--   
  
And then Ashley moves.   
  
She doesn't just twitch or flinch, not again; she stumbles, jerks her foot back in a nervous tic, tries not to fall in a heap in the snow. Her hand reaches out to grab onto Chris' jacket in desperation, she gasps and her entire face crumples in panic, Chris knows it does even if he can't see her because that's just what Ashley  _ does  _ \--And then her fingernails are gripping his arm, stabbing him through the fabric while the Wendigo is right there-- suddenly his vision blurs and he's in the middle of the forest by himself again, screams circling him, hot breath on his back, his ankle feeling like it's broken and fuck they're right there--  _ it's _ right there-- His pulse jumps and he can't breathe, god, he can't, he can't, it hurt so bad he can't do it again he can't be here again he doesn't want to die--   
  
The Wendigo charges forward in a flurry of motion; an ungodly screech rips out of its throat, and it tears forward. In just a couple bounds it's right there, right in front of them, maw wide open. Chris doesn't feel himself do it, he can’t with all the screaming and blood in his head, but he lifts the shotgun. Confident, only a little shaky, he picks it up like he did before, like he remembers from before.

 

Everything slows to a crawl. He’s numbly pointing the gun at the Wendigo; it’s fast, so nightmarishly fast, but for that second he can see it like it’s not moving at all. The Wendigo jumps at him. Its claws point outwards, like a dozen daggers reaching out for his face and neck. He can see the way its face warps into a scream, he can see every single speck of muck on its skin, he can stare at it like it’s a still picture. It’s leaping in the air, and everyone else is starting to react, and the Stranger is pointing his flamethrower…

 

The flames reach the monster before Chris’ shaky fingers can grip the trigger. A plume of fire and smoke blooms across its left side, enveloping it in a ball of hot light. Its skin sizzles and hisses, steam and acrid smoke rolling into the bitter cold. The thing screeches, is blown back; the deadly glass-fingers, pointed right for Chris’ heart, are ripped away as it’s thrown back from the pain. It tosses itself into the snow, twitching and gurgling in agony -- just for a moment or two, and already it’s recovering and starting to stand.

 

The Stranger screams something, and everyone runs.

 

Chris grabs onto Ashley’s arm and pulls her with him, because if he doesn’t then she’ll completely freak out and die. Her screams and sobs puncture the ringing in his ears, and her fingernails gripping his wrist sting his skin harsher than all the grotesque memories churning in his head. Hell, if he didn’t have Ash or somebody,  _ he’d _ completely freak out and die.

 

Instead, he shakes his head. Through the buzz in his head, the hazy panic wrapping around his throat, he tears through the snow, Ashley behind him. In front of him Jessica and Josh are sprinting down to the cars; Hannah and Beth desperately grip to one another in a vice grip; Matt and Emily charge ahead, yelling for the others to run, go faster, come on-- Ashley finally comes to, her mouth snaps shut, her steely hold disappears and Chris’ arm goes schock-cold as Ashley shoots ahead of him--

 

There’s a screech and a flare of light.

 

Chris nearly chokes as a figure swings out in front of him. He trips and almost drops the shotgun into the snow until he realizes that it’s just his shadow. Behind him the Wendigo lets out a mutilated scream and then there’s another flash of light and burst of heat. Flames lick up at Chris’ back, practically curl up his neck, and an ethereal scream echoes down the trail. The hollow sound -- an endless cacophony of screaming and  _ screaming _ and  _ hunger _ ripples across the trees, into Chris’ head, a thousand yells of _ I want out help me help us I’m so hungry I’m sorry I have to hungry prey prey pain _ \-- until it shatters into a cold and empty silence. Chris swears he sees a misty flash of red, a gnarled face twisted up in rage, a blackened spirit darting into the sky like a bat out of hell-- but then he blinks, and it’s gone.

 

His lungs are aching, and he’s falling behind from the others, and all of this is so unbelievably fucked up, but he manages to bark out a shaky laugh anyway. The Stranger must have killed the thing. Yeah, take that, you piece of shit.

 

Chris almost feels happy, almost calms down, almost feels hopeful as the trees start to break form and thin around the trail. Far away, the cable car station stands out in the snow; just have to run to it.

 

\--Then the other one jumps out of a nearby tree.

 

_ Are you fucking kidding me? _

 

Another Wendigo, gnarled and screaming, leaps from its perch into the pale morning sunlight. It hisses and gurgles at the sun-- and then its monstrous body is wriggling in between the cluster of kids. Its claws rip up chunks of snow as it groans in frustration, as it turns back and forth in a demented twitch; everyone is getting closer, but Chris is still slightly trailing behind. The Wendigo is right in between them, looking back and forth, deciding whether it should go for the easier target or the most prey.

 

Chris takes a breath. 

 

The world is canting to the side and his heartbeat pounds in his ears, but somewhere in the fear he looks back, to where the Stranger had killed the Wendigo just seconds ago. And there’s nothing. Deep red and black scars cut through the snow, footprints are smashed into the trail, but there’s no Wendigos and no Stranger. A few feet into the treeline there’s another plume of fire and smoke and more ungodly screeches -- and how many of these fucking things  _ are _ there?!

 

But-- but no. Shut up, Chris. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that these things are here, and there’s one right  _ there _ , and that the Stranger is close, but he’s probably not gonna get here in time.

 

Everything slows to a crawl. It all stops, dead and cold, while Chris’ pulse spikes and he turns back and watches the Wendigo hop back and forth between him and his friends, trying to choose who’s going to die.

 

They’re not gonna make it to the station in time. That hits him, hard, and it’s so much that he’s surprised when he doesn’t keel over dead right there. If that Wendigo runs after them, they’re goners. And he’ll watch as that twisted abomination brutally tears them apart. Some of them might get there, but somebody will die and everything will just start again. After everything, after all of this  _ shit _ they won’t make it--

 

Unless the Wendigo is too distracted to follow them.

 

Suddenly, Chris is more calm than he’s ever been before. His pulse slows. His lungs don’t hurt anymore. His stomach stomach stops churning. He lifts his shotgun with steady hands. He makes the decision for the Wendigo before the stupid fucker can make up its mind itself.

 

Some of them might get there, but somebody will die.

 

He’s not going to let it be any of them.

 

And like-- shit. Fuck, this sucks. A cold dread fills his stomach, his hands start to shake again. Maybe he  _ can _ make it, right? But he’s gotta get by it first. And- And if it comes to it…

 

Look, he already let people down. He let people get killed. He almost shot Ash, for Christ’s sake. He pointed the gun on himself and he-- and he just fucking backed out of it and let Ash think he chose to save her, and now everything is so messed up. But he’s got a second chance now.  _ He’s _ the one who came back, not anybody else, and if you think he gonna waste that then you’re crazy. Plus, the Stranger… he can’t just leave him here, you know? The old guy already died because of him once, he can’t just leave him to die again. He doesn’t deserve it. Chris is gonna get everybody else off of this fucking mountain. Even if it means…

 

His breath feels like venom and fire in his throat, his stomach rolls, and his ankle screams in phantom pain as he aims-- but it’s nothing. This is nothing. He’s done this before, no big fucking deal.

 

“Hey,” he says. It’s coarse, harsh, a whisper that dies on the wind, on the gargling of the Wendigo. Then, “Hey! Look over here, you piece of shit!”

 

It turns and looks at him. He lets it take three bounds before he fires, and then before it can get up again he’s sprinting in the opposite direction.

 

He tears through the snow, the shotgun hard and heavy in his hand, his eyes blurring as his glasses fog up. His heart is pounding again, but he forces it to slow again and forces himself  _ not _ to turn around and look at the thing huffing at his neck because if he does he might freak out and stop. All there is, is the woods, and him, and the fact that he has to keep going. If he doesn’t, he’ll just be letting the same thing happen again, and then-- and then what was even the point of all this? So he shakes his head, and ignores his stinging lungs, and stomps up the trail with the sounds of the Wendigo behind him pounding in his head, chest, everything.

 

Idly, through the haze, he remembers when Josh-- well, before they knew it was Josh, he guesses -- told him that someone would have to be shot. Remembers when he took in that breath and put the gun to his neck in an instant. It was what felt right. Like, natural. He couldn’t let Ashley die. He couldn’t lose anybody else, not after Hannah and Beth, not after  _ Josh _ , and it was like-- he could  _ save _ her, so why wouldn’t he, right? It wasn’t even a question... at least not before she was screaming at him to please shoot her, please kill her, please let her die instead of him. And then it was so fucked up, and he was saying that stuff to her and thinking about what he was going to do and the sawblades were getting closer and his hands were shaking and God, what was he going to do, he already fucked up and Josh was dead and it was his fault...

 

He thinks about how all of this shit might have gone down if he had just shot himself in the goddamn neck. He thinks about how much it hurt to die, to watch Ashley stand there and leave him stranded while he begged her,  _ Ash, God Ash, please open the door _ . He wonders if it will hurt more this time.

 

And then it gets him. 

 

He’s sprinting, the woods whipping past him, the wind whistling in his ears, the branches tearing at his face again in a blur of chill and panic-- and then there’s  _ pain _ . Hot, explosive pain shoots up his arm as he’s ripped open. Blood splatters off into the white, staining it rust red. His scream dies out as his face is crushed to the ground, as he’s being smothered by the pure stinging cold. There’s a pressure on his back, crushing the life out of him, something so skinny and sharp but somehow so heavy, and he can feel the tips of its pointed fingers starting to clench and--  _ he can’t think he can’t breathe he can’t move he can’t see he’s going to die fuck fuck fuck _ \--

 

The Wendigo rips its claws into the fabric of his coat. It tosses him to the side in a whir of motion and cold, and he flops onto his back in the snow as his breath is crushed out of him. Chris tries to suck in a strangled gasp, but then-- It’s there. It’s face is in his, a stinking mouth full of jagged teeth, needles and knives that are right at his face and dripping an acrid liquid down his front; its dead fish-eyes are staring into him, so glassy he can see his reflection in them, can see his pure terror inside of them; and it’s screaming at him, so  _ loud _ , it’s ringing in his head, in his everything. There’s nothing but it: it’s all he can see, all he can smell, all he can hear. He can’t think straight and it’s on top of him and-- 

 

\--It raises a spindly arm, and Chris chokes. His whole world flickers black as it lifts its clawed hand, raises it, starts to swing down--

 

There’s a plume of fire and smoke, more strangled screaming, and suddenly he’s not dead.

 

A hand yanks him roughly from the ground, the shape of the shotgun is in his hand and it’s hard to hold it, his arm stings so bad, but he does. Numbly, he watches the Stranger’s face move. It’s blurry, and silent, and it hurts, and he can’t tell what’s happening, but he finds himself nodding anyway.

 

The only word he catches is “Makkapitew”, before his world comes crashing back.

 

They’re in the woods somewhere, standing in a stained patch of snow. The Stranger is standing at his back, flamethrower rattling in his hand. The Wendigo that attacked him is gone now, nothing but a burnt piece of ash and a screaming red spirit still echoing in Chris’ chest. His arm is hurt. Not badly, really, but it’s bleeding.

 

In the distance, a single gargle of a Wendigo rings. It sounds different from the others, somehow.

 

The Stranger screams at him again, “I told you to get out of here!”

 

And even though he’s still out of it, Chris manages: “I had to, it-- it was going to get them. What was I supposed to do?”

 

Another screech booms of the mountainside. In a second, the Stranger is shoving Chris forward, towards a path of old footprints. Some of them look like his own, like the old shoes he knows he used to own once. The others aren’t even human. There’s still blood in the snow. His blood.

 

Chris nearly vomits, but doesn’t.

 

The Stranger pushes him again. This time he nearly knocks him over; Chris figures he would be pissed, if he didn’t have about fifty other more important things to worry about right now. Like living, for one.

 

“It doesn’t matter now,” the old man says, “Now go! I’ll be behind you.”

 

Chris doesn’t even think about it. He just goes. Forces himself to put one foot in front of the other, to run back the way he came. Past where he nearly died like three minutes ago, and probably right toward another Wendigo that’s waiting for another shot at him.

 

He just hopes everyone else made it out alright.

 

* * *

 

Everything is a rush, after that. As soon as it happens, he forgets everything but some freaky afterimages. There’s walking and running, and the woods whipping past him; the rattle of the flamethrower behind him and the Wendigo screaming somewhere faraway; and Chris panting and his arm hurting and his lungs hurting and his eyes hurting--

 

\-- But then the cable car is in front of him again. And the Stranger is with him this time.

 

There’s a blurry crowd of people in front of the station; he sees the outline of Sam and Mike and Josh and the others, Hannah and Beth and all of them-- and he’s staring at them, he’s just so focused on getting there, to them, that he doesn’t pay attention, doesn’t hear the blood-curdling screams, doesn’t feel the rancid breath on his neck, or the rush of air as a mutilated nightmare swipes at him one last time--

 

There’s more screaming, more flames chasing him, and then he’s in the cable car. He doesn’t even really know how he got there, and for one second he thinks about how fucked up that is. How fucked up all of this is.

 

But then his friends are talking to him. Yelling at him. Crying.

 

_ Oh _ .

 

He’s on the car.  _ They’re  _ on the car. He sees Beth and Hannah and Jessica and Sam and Josh and-- and  _ all of them _ .

 

Chris whips around behind him as the cable car lurches and he feels his stomach roll with heat; outside of the grimy, snow-covered window he sees the Stranger surrounded by a wall of fire and blackened smoke and snow. The Wendigo, the Makkapitew, its spindly legs flailing in agony, burns to a crisp in a flash of peeling skin and disgusting ichor. There’s a screeching, a spirit that explodes into the air with a haunting yell, one that booms with pain and apologies and  _ hunger-- _

 

Then there’s silence. The car whirs and jostles as it slowly, gently descends down the mountainside. The trees stir in a faint whistle of wind. Powder snow kicks up into the air, where the morning sun now paints the sky into a swirling portrait of apple red and a faint baby blue.

 

Before the cable car eclipses the tree line, the Stranger looks over at them. At all of them, really, but straight at Chris. He nods, alive and well, and then he’s out of sight.

 

Chris breathes.

 

Then he almost passes out. Goes faint. Just for a second.

 

He turns around, and everyone is there. Ashley is curled up into a quaking, sobbing ball in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest, and Chris would feel shitty about that if it weren’t for the fact that he’s happy she’s even  _ alive _ ; Mike is staring at him with wide eyes as he clutches Emily to his front, who looks like she’s a mixture of panicked, shocked, and pissed; Matt looks lost, his gaze glassy as he looks between everyone here; Jessica stands by him, her face blank and hollow-looking, her fingernails picking at her hands; Sam, Beth, Hannah and Josh are right in front of him. They’re saying something to him, looking at his bleeding forearm, gently hugging him and crying.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

Chris smiles, somehow. It’s broken. It’s tiny. It kind of hurts, almost. But it’s there.

 

Because holy shit. He did it.

 

They’re finally getting off of this mountain, away from this nightmare. _All_ of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i actually did it! This chapter was really rough for me, and I'm not entirely pleased with the final product, but I'm excited to move on to what happens next. because sure, the kids are off the mountain physically... but things like this aren't so easily gotten over...
> 
> Basically what I'm saying is get ready for some pain, anger, and uncomfortable conversations.


End file.
